


Like A Spell Does Evening Bind

by FieryPen37



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Jealousy, Roma | Rome, Romance, Shyness, Slow Burn, Smitten Erik, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5412458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Peace in Giovanni Marchesi's Roman house is a fragile thing between Luciana's fractious nature and Erik's dark tempers. This fragile peace is shattered when a Swedish violinist and his daughter come to visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

 

“Once I choose to look with Luciana's eyes it was very easy to see and understand the primitive allure of the almost regal dignity, the curious, hypnotic quality of that unique voice. Beneath my roof I was sheltering a young prince of darkness. The sensuality of power radiated from his every move. . .”  
-Giovanni

Prologue  
Rome, 1870

Christine contemplated the door with wary eyes. Such a simple thing, but ripe with symbolic meaning. It was a door of thick, dark oak, the bronze handle ending in a fanciful curl. A door, a symbol of transition, change. Her life’s upheavals had taught Christine to be wary of the promise radiating from the door. Or rather, the man that lay beyond it. Her heart fluttered. Had he truly meant it, or was he simply toying with her? He made her feel young and gauche and stupid, unsure if his silken-voiced promises were made in truth or jest. Rome’s languid heat pressed on her, raising a fine dew of perspiration as she loitered at the foot of the stair, contemplating the door to his basement room.

All of a sudden, the door creaked open, and there he was in all of his dark glory. Her throat went dry, her hands fisted in her lacy shift. Her eyes skittered away from the masked, sphinx-like visage to feast on the way his black silk robe exposed a thin sliver of his darkly tanned chest, complete with a smattering of black chest hair. Embroidery in black thread sinuously caressed the sleeves and the line of his broad shoulders, catching the light of the lone candle flickering in the sconce on the wall. Black trousers encased his legs, but his feet were bare. It seemed titillating and forbidden to see his naked feet, more so than even his bare chest. 

“Look at me, Christine,” he said, coaxing her in his voice of chocolate, smoke, and angel’s tears. Obediently, she lifted her gaze to those startlingly, painfully green eyes. The left side of his face held none of Michangelo’s fondness of pert, Cupid’s bow mouths, or straight Roman noses. No, Erik’s mouth was ripe with sensuality, his nose proudly aquiline, cheekbone set a catlike tilt. The right side was concealed by a white, stern half-mask, which only added to his mystery. His collar-length black hair, usually combed so neatly back, was distractingly disheveled, one stubborn lock hanging in his eyes. An artful toss of his head cleared his vision. His hot gaze raked over her, hungrily devouring the sight of her clad in nothing but her shift and her hair. 

“Have you made your choice, pet?” he purred, head tilted at a flirtatious angle. Rather than seem like the aloof prince of darkness, his eyes burned. Her answer mattered to him. Intensely. Gooseflesh stippled her skin. In his presence, her doubts burned away like fog under the hot eye of the sun. She wanted this.

“Yes,” she breathed. His hand unfurled in the very definition of subtle grace, and Christine folded her own into it, trembling.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning

Chapter 1

Two years earlier . . .

“Thank God! It’s here! He replied!” Christine looked up from her sewing at the sound of her father’s voice raised in rare excitement. She set aside the costume she labored over in the weak winter sunlight trickling into their inn room. Her throbbing fingers cried out in relief and she rubbed away a cramp at the base of her thumb. Barefoot, she crossed the chilly floorboards to her father’s fireside chair and peered over his shoulder at the rain-spattered, dog-eared vellum he held. The words were an incomprehensible snarl to her. It was Papa who had the gift for tongues. Beyond her native Swedish, she could only manage French fluently and that only under Madame Giry’s patient instruction. 

“Who has replied, Papa?” Christine asked, breathless, almost dizzy with hope. Her work as a seamstress combined with whatever meager coin Papa gained playing on a Parisian street corner barely paid for the room, much less firewood, food, or a new coat. Madame Giry gave what she could, but a widowed ballet mistress could contribute little to a friend’s plight.

“Giovanni Marchesi,” Papa said tersely, eyes hungrily scanning the letter. 

“Who is he?” Papa waved off her question, thick brows knit in furious concentration as he silently formed the words.

“An acquaintance, a stone mason from Rome. We met at the Opera some years ago. He fancies himself a cultured man and appreciated my playing. We’ve exchanged letters every so often, and I sent an inquiry some months back.” Christine nodded, gnawing on her lower lip as Papa made his ponderous way through the tangle of slanted Italian script. The thunderous scowl suddenly cleared into one of beatific hope.

“Thank God. Sweet Mary preserve us, he said yes. He said yes, my girl!” 

With this enigmatic statement, her father swung her up in his arms, spinning her in a circle as he had when she was child. Christine laughed, happy because he was happy. Her poor Papa worried so much; she saw the new grey lightening his temples, the lines seaming his face. He set her down, beaming and brandishing the letter with a theatric gesture.

“He has offered to host us in Rome. This is our salvation!” The brown eyes they shared sparkled. The euphoria in her chest stuttered and died. Rome? How were they to afford the journey? And Papa—the catarrh in his cough hadn’t gone away, not after three months of tonics. 

“Rome, Papa? We’ve only just settled here. Perhaps you could go to Monsieur Lefavre about playing in the orchestra . . .” Papa scowled, raking a hand through his untidy black fringe.

“We’ve discussed this, Christine. The Opera is run by its own politics. There are half a dozen French violinists in the queue for the orchestra and it could take me years to even make second or third chair. That’s not enough to support us, let alone enough for a dowry for you. Now, if you wanted to stay, I’m certain Minette could find a place for you in--” Christine grasped her papa by the forearms in sudden, feverish urgency.

“No! No, Papa! I stay with you!” she said, trying to battle down the choking swell of terror and blink away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. 

“Oh, lilla gumman hush. Hush now,” her papa crooned, gathering her into an embrace, “No more talk of separating, hmm?” Christine shook her head, nuzzling the warm wool of his shirt, smelling pipe tobacco and the faint tang of sweat.

“There are opera houses in Rome, plenty of opportunity. It will be good for us. Just think of the beauty of Rome, and the sea nearby. You’ve always wanted to see the sea!” 

Christine mustered a weak smile. She’d learned this song by rote in the six years since Mama died and they’d left Sweden. Papa’s mind was made up. At least Italy was warm. Maybe there Papa could have time to recover. Besides, it would take a few months to save for the journey. Time enough to accustom herself to leaving behind the beautiful, mournful toll of Notre Dame, the glitter of the La Seine, and the grandeur of the Populaire. Sweet Virgin, she would miss the Populaire most of all. Madame and Meg had knit themselves into her heart. Christine smiled through the tears, remarking that they should both brush up on Italian operas. Papa chuckled, pressing a sweet kiss on her forehead.

“That’s my girl,” he said, tickling her under her chin as if she was a child and not fifteen years old. Christine returned to the heap of gold cloth at her chair. Once she finished the dress, she would visit Madame and Meg and break the news. 

XXX

Luciana Marchesi utterly loathed the school Papa had sent her to. Milan was an exciting city, but she saw little of it beyond the bland walls and neat orchards of the convent school. ‘Convent,’ she thought, should be a byword for ‘prison.’ A prison of pious old cows in black, gnawing on an old cud of regurgitated virtues. An ugly place where laughter was tantamount to blasphemy and defiance was met with the crack of a ruler over a quivering palm. Uttering an irritated little huff, she sank back against the thinly padded back of the hired carriage, desperately uncomfortable. At least she was going home. It was the Christmas holiday, not even those bovines in habits could quibble over that. Luciana thunked her head against the carriage door’s chilly window, refusing to let the convent and the sullen drizzle dampen her mood. She would see Papa soon. She would see him. 

Him: her father’s apprentice. No, no that was the wrong word. He wasn’t an apprentice anymore: he was too smart, he’d graduated. Oh, why hadn’t she paid better attention to Papa’s drivel about molds and plumb lines, and wasn’t there quite a bit about different types of chiseling? As a child, her papa’s work was the reason why his hands were so coarse and why he came home covered in fine white dust and why her friends and wealthy neighbors were living in the houses her papa built. Her understanding hadn’t improved much in the intervening years.  
But she had never wanted to learn so badly after he came. He, Erik. Erik Franzese. Luciana stifled a snort. Calandrino thought he was being so clever, giving Erik the surname that meant ‘the Frenchman’ despite how stubbornly Erik clung to his French name, Rousseau. If Papa would let her stay home, away from that horrid school, she could learn and maybe Erik would give her the time of day.

“Here we are, signorina.” The driver’s voice interrupted her reverie and with a happy cry, she realized she was home.

“Grazie, signore,” Luciana replied, paying him coin from her purse. Gathering her wrinkled, dusty habit around her, she disembarked. She sucked in a breath of rain-chilled air, grateful to be free of that rolling hothouse. 

Luciana waved cheerily at Francesco who was hauling her trunk down from the carriage’s rack. The rain plastered his black curls to his head, the cloth of his dark shirt clinging wetly to his chest. Once a lifetime ago, she’d been sweet on Francesco. Papa hadn’t liked it. However comely the boy with his dimpled smile and easy manner, he was still a servant, and while they were far from nobility, Papa’s trade made them respectable. Papa’s distaste only spurred her on, stealing kisses on the rooftop garden. She could tell her papa didn’t like her fascination with Erik either, but she just couldn’t help it. He was just so . . . just so . . . mysterious. Luciana ducked under the archway that led to their inner courtyard. 

“Luciana! Signorina!” Signora Donati, their housekeeper, waddled out and gathered Luciana under her shawl like a nervous mother hen. 

Once safely inside, Luciana was enveloped in a damp embrace. It was almost siesta time, Papa would be in his study sipping his port and preparing for rest. Peeling back, Luciana smiled. Whenever she and Mama would get into their spats and she was sent to her room without supper, Signora Donati would see to it that her little charge ate whatever she could smuggle.

“I want to see Papa, Signora. Is Erik here?”

“Oh child! What do you want with that man?” Signora Donati’s weathered face folded into an expression of scandalized dismay, soft hands patting Luciana’s cheeks. Luciana rolled her eyes. Erik was here ten years and he was still ‘that man?’ Didn’t anyone else see how wonderful he was?

“Is he here?” she demanded. Signora’s mouth thinned, but she nodded.

“Yes. He’s in the study with your papa. Take this with you.” Signora Donati shoved a tray of minestrone soup, small loaves of crisp bread and small dishes of spiced sausage into her hands. Her morning meal hours and hours ago had consisted of watery, unappetizing porridge, so the hot, savory scent rising in moist tendrils of steam made her stomach cramp.

“There’s enough for you, signorina. Go on now!” Signora Donati said, shooing her with a theatric flutter of her hands. 

Sticking her tongue out in playful defiance, Luciana called greetings as she left the kitchen and climbed the stair to Papa’s study. On the landing, she stopped dead at the sound of his voice. Assaulted anew by the heavenly lilts and sinful timbres as he spoke, Luciana breathed a girlish sigh. No one with such a beautiful voice could be ugly underneath the mask. No one.

“And who is this Gustave Daae, Sir?” Erik was saying, his distaste like the sharp whiff of kerosene in his voice. 

“An old acquaintance, Erik. He’s a musician; I thought it would please you. He and his daughter will be traveling from Paris and then staying with us for the winter, at least.” Had Papa’s voice always sounded so thin, so tired? And who were these potential guests?

“A French musician?” Erik’s interest was piqued, Luciana could tell by the practiced indifference in his voice. 

“He himself is Swedish, but they both speak French fluently. You can’t fool an old fool, Erik. I know you long for the lilt of your native language. You were playing Ave Maria again last night.” Erik made a derisive sound in his throat. 

“I have lived here longer than any house I had in France. And aren’t you always pestering me about matters of faith?” Oh, there was a playful cadence in Erik’s expressive voice, an impish edge! Luciana lingered, not caring if the food cooled. If she walked in now, she would spoil it. Erik was never playful with her. 

“Pestering, is it? And here I thought I was being subtle. Erik, you are not simply a tenant here. This is your home as long as you wish it so.” A long pause and Luciana held her breath as the rain drummed against the roof. 

“Thank you, Sir.” Hoarse and soft, Erik’s voice caressed her like the rub of fur.

“It’s no matter,” Papa said, gruff and quiet. Why were men such fools when it came to displaying their affection for each other? Matters would be so much simpler if Papa simply embraced Erik as his son. Erik was already basically running their business. Luciana would embrace him with her whole being, if he’d let her.

“When will this Swedish musician and his daughter grace us with their presence?” Luciana heard the ruffle of paper.

“His letter says they will arrive sometime in the summer. He will be our guest.” 

“A beggar taking advantage of your hospitality, if I am not being too bold.”

“Our guest, Erik.” There was a warning note in Papa’s voice and Luciana decided it was time to make her presence known. Her arrival should be the center of their attention!

“Here is some luncheon for you!” her voice swung up, bright and chipper as she shouldered through the half-closed door into Papa’s study. 

“Luciana, darling! What are you doing home?” Papa rose, slowly, painfully from his chair to greet her, thin, tired face lighting up when he saw her. Luciana set the tray down to accept Papa’s embrace, breathing deeply of his cologne and the cloves he liked to chew.

“It’s Christmastime, Papa! Even those imprisoned at a convent school are allowed to come home for Christmas!” Her father’s coarse hands petted Luciana’s damp, wild hair, cupping her cheek with a horny palm. 

“Are you feeling well, darling? You look flushed.” 

Her eyes immediately flew to Erik, oh he looked the same as he always did: lean and dark and mysterious with that white half-mask concealing the right side of his face. Those brilliantly green eyes were cool with polite greeting. He was so handsome and she felt so tongue-tied and stupid around him! Luciana peeled back, pressing her suddenly cold hands to her burning cheeks.

“I’m fine. I’m just happy to be home.” Erik’s face was inscrutable, as always. He just stood in his usual place beside Papa’s desk, standing at attention, like a soldier, or a servant. Ten years here and he didn’t think it was his home? 

“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” Erik’s voice dropped to a timbre that Luciana recognized as one special to her. One of respect mingled with irritation. Luciana suppressed the desire to kick his shins. She’d show him that she could be clever and sophisticated, worldly and erudite beyond her fifteen years.

“I left early.” Her voice airy and flippant, Luciana busied her hands passing Papa his soup and sausage and cutting neat wedges of bread. Erik accepted his plates with a murmured courtesy, taking his ease in one of the deep chairs across from Papa’s desk. She’d always loved this room, with its wide windows, cozy bookshelves and the polished oak of Papa’s desk gleaming. Papa asked her about her schooling and her journey, but all of Luciana’s attention was on his looming presence. A potent charisma that hadn’t worn away even after ten years. It didn’t matter who was coming to visit, she decided. Erik was hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So what do we think?


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting

Chapter 2

 

The damp chill of his cellar room wrapped around him like the arms of a lover. It had always been a peculiarity of his, to seek shelter underground. Hidden away from prying eyes, whispers cupped in gloved hands—safe. Darkness, cold and silence, all a balm after hours of pressing, humid heat and the taste of frustration. Familiar shelves cluttered with his tinkerings crammed cheek by jowl with books and thick sheaves of score lined the walls. Once, the cellar had held Giovanni’s wine bottles, and now were Erik’s only retreat. A cramped drafting table hunched in the corner, closest to the lantern. The room’s only extravagance was the bed, long enough for Erik to stretch out full-length and wide enough to sprawl across.

Erik heaved a sigh and sank into his chair, weariness settling deep in his bones. A headache pounded against the inside of his skull, like a demented elf with a hammer banging on a bell. Calandrino and the other foremen were giving him hell on the Valestro project. Subtly, of course, or as subtly as an uneducated foreman could manage: wasted raw materials, misdirected shipments that delayed production, fistfights amongst the workers—all designed to cast doubt on Erik’s authority. Giovanni had handed the reins of the firm into Erik’s hands, a widely resented decision. Erik could understand Calandrino’s sentiment. The prodigy that they had formerly only had to tolerate was now their superior, and it chafed, especially when said prodigy was misshapen, foreign, and twenty years their junior. 

While he could muster a fleeting understanding, the stress it placed upon Giovanni’s shoulders was unacceptable. Couldn’t the fools see that Giovanni was ill, hear the wheezing rasp in his lungs? Wild, unreasonable panic constricted Erik’s throat. Giovanni couldn’t . . . couldn’t die.   
Erik swiftly shoved the horrid thought into a tightly locked box in his mind, one that also held Persia, a Gypsy cage and the truth of his paternity. No, now he needed the dark and the silence. Music beckoned him, but Erik would savor that pleasure when the rest of the house was abed. Don Juan was not something to be shared. A heavy, muffled clatter broke Erik’s uneasy rumination, and he rose, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve some of the demented elf’s handiwork. It was after supper after all, and Giovanni’s rest was not to be disturbed. He yanked open the door of his retreat.

“What are you doing here, sciocco? Signore doesn’t want visitors! Are you deaf or just stupid, eh? I said go!” Signora Donati’s swift, lilting Italian raised in fluent scolding was punctuated by the clatter of hooves on the cobbles and the creak of abused carriage wheels. A hoarse, rasping voice answered: “Excuse me, Signora. Please speak slow.” Erik’s lip curled into a snarl. The man’s Italian really was terrible—heavily accented and lilting in odd places. Signora Donati maintained her stream of vicious Latin-flavored abuse, now berating his speech as well, and Erik felt the faint trickle of amusement through his weariness. While the housekeeper was superstitious and narrow-minded, it was a flaw borne of love and loyalty to the Marchesi family. Erik understood better than anyone the loyalty Giovanni’s kindness could inspire. 

Heat radiated from the sunbaked bricks of the stair in almost visible waves and Erik plucked irritably at the linen of his shirt, clinging in places. A fine layer of grit collected beneath the white half mask and chafed on such wretchedly hot days. For all the beauty of Rome’s architecture, it was a cesspool of baking heat and stink in the summertime. Erik scaled the stairs two at a time to discover the cause of the commotion.

“Go away, we don’t want your kind here!” Signora Donati was barring entry to the foyer with her formidable bulk, arms darting in expressive sweeping gestures. The two wretches who had earned her ire were barely visible in the light of the lone lantern. Behind them, the driver of their cab was heaving their luggage onto the cobbles without care, muttering something about not being paid under his breath. 

“Singora, please--”

“Go away!”

“Signore, where is my--?”

“What is going on here?” Erik’s voice cut through the arguing like a knife. All four stopped and stared at him agape. Signora Donati’s dark eyes flashed and she waved a hand toward two huddled figures, clothes travel-stained and faces hanging bleak, pale, and dewed with sweat in the orb of weak light. 

“These beggars insist on speaking with the Signore at this hour!”

“Sir, I . . .” the man broke off into an impressive fit of coughing that wracked his broad frame. The young woman patted his shoulders soothingly. 

“How can an honest man earn a living when beggars cannot pay, I tell you?” the cab driver insisted, making a rude hand gesture at the hunched man’s back. Erik exhaled heavily through his nose, reaching for his purse and tossing coin at the muttering driver. 

“There is your fare, for an honest man,” Erik drawled, dismissing one irritant with a curt jerk of his chin. As he rounded on the two vagrants, a case caught his eye. A violin case. Understanding dawned through his weariness.

“Peace, Signora. These are our long-awaited guests.” He switched to French: “Gustave Daae, I presume?” The other man’s strain-reddened face broke into an expression of profound relief. Sucking down a breath of the thick evening air, he replied, “Yes. Thank you, Sir. And my daughter, Christine.” Erik’s gaze flickered over the girl, gaining the impression of curly hair, brown eyes and an unfortunate gown of a disgusting muddled green.

“Mademoiselle,” Erik murmured, bowing.

“Good evening, Sir.” Her reply was soft, a blush creeping up her neck. It was when he noted her fixed gaze on his mask that Erik stiffened. Be it repulsion, pity, or sick fascination, he loathed such a look. He turned to Singora Donati, who glared squint-eyed at the newcomers, her shawl clutched tight to her ample bosom.

“The Signore mentioned two foreign guests, do you recall? This is Gustave and Christine, they are our guests for the time being.” Transitioning to French, he gestured to the Signora.

“Monsieur, Mademoiselle, may I introduce Monsieur Marchesi’s housekeeper, Madame Donati. I apologize, she was under the impression that you were impolite ruffians attempting to pawn off her employer’s good nature. It would not be the first time.” The Daae girl was wringing her hands.

“Oh, please tell her we are very sorry. Our ship was delayed in the bay, you see, and Papa was ill, and we didn’t have the coin to hire a--”

“Hush, girl!” Her father growled, grasping her forearm and murmuring to her in a more guttural tongue, Swedish, Erik recognized after a moment. He was saying something about propriety, embarrassment . . . Erik pinched the bridge of his nose again. 

“She says she is sorry to have offended you,” Erik said. A pity no other of Giovanni’s household could act as translator! Signora Donati’s dark eyes softened and fluttered over first the father, then lingered over the daughter.

“I’ll fetch them some supper, then rouse Antonio to collect their things.”

“Thank you, Signora. I shall see them to the parlor and fetch Signore.” Signora Donati nodded curtly and bustled off. Theirs was not a relationship of affection, but of wary respect.

“Come, I shall lead you inside. The kitchen lad Antonio will bring your things to your room.” 

Daae cast a hesitant glance at their battered trunk, worn suitcase and then lastly on the violin case. He snatched up the last and cradled it to his chest like a child. Erik nodded in cool approval, leading the two through the courtyard and into the house. Without the promise of a breeze, the heat was truly oppressive. 

“Excuse me Signore, are you a translator?” Daae’s clumsy Italian did little to improve his headache. A smirk curled Erik’s mouth.

“No. I enjoy languages, but it is not my profession.” After lighting the lamp, already begrudging the flame its heat, Erik crossed the room in four strides and flung the window open. The girl’s   
French was fluent, but hesitant: “Pardon, Sir, but are you . . . are you Monsieur Marchesi’s butler?” He laughed at that, a sharp, humorless bark. Beads of sweat trickled down his neck.

“No miss, I am not. I am Monsieur Marchesi’s . . . business associate,” he said, in Italian by force of habit, then quickly repeating himself in French. The safest and most comfortable role. Nevermind that Erik would gladly cut off his hand if Giovanni suggested that he have need of it. Daae sank into one the parlor chairs. Even the warm light of the lamp could not hide his pallor. As she took her seat, Christine gently squeezed her father’s shoulder. The subtle gesture of care and reassurance pierced Erik. 

“Business associate? You short-change yourself, my boy.” Giovanni leaned heavily against Francesco as they made their laborious way down the stairs. His lungs sounded like creaking bellows, weak and moth-eaten at the edges. The sound of mortality made Erik want to clap his hands over his ears.

“Sir.” Father. He stood on Giovanni’s other side, offering whatever strength could be found in him. Francesco nodded to him, slyly winking at Christine before leaving the parlor. 

“Giovanni!” Daae mustered some exuberance and rose, catching Giovanni in a hearty handshake.

“I apologize for my Italian, my friend. We caused your housekeeper quite a fright. It was thanks to your associate that we were admitted at all!” Giovanni laughed in reply, teeth flashing beneath the lustrous growth of his iron-grey mustache.

“Signora Donati can be very fierce, Gustave, it’s true. I am glad Erik was there to come to your rescue.” Giovanni’s spoke slowly, but Erik caught the glaze of incomprehension in Daae’s eyes. Erik dutifully translated, only the slight twitch of a muscle in his cheek betraying his irritation. Giovanni’s eye turned to the girl and softened.

“Where are my manners? Your daughter, Christine, yes?” That at least, Daae understood and answered: “Yes.” Gustave gestured for Christine to join them and she did so with a tremulous smile.

“She has no Italian, I’m afraid,” Daae said, fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on his thigh.

“Ah,” Giovanni raised a crooked finger in a thoughtful stalling gesture, black eyes gleaming with mischief.

“By the same token, I must apologize for my French. Erik has tried and failed to correct my horrid accent.” Both Daae and Christine applauded as if Giovanni had performed some fine trick with his French. Erik checked the urge to roll his eyes, an unwilling, indulgent smirk curling his mouth.

“You speak French well, Sir. Far better than Papa speaks Italian,” Christine said with a shy smile.

“Little wretch,” her father muttered in Swedish, kissing his daughter’s wild hair to alleviate the sting of the words. Giovanni gathered her close and breathed two kisses on the air over her cheeks. He squeezed her hands gently.

“Bless you, child. Erik, she and Luciana will get along quite well, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, Sir.” Erik replied, though he sincerely doubted it. In his heart of hearts, he was sure Giovanni doubted it too. Luciana would resent any attention Christine garnered from those around her, and by no fault of her own, Christine would garner attention by being a newcomer. Mystery had a potent effect on the human psyche. Erik had once been in the business of cultivating it, feeding off of it and sneering at the feebler minds who awed at it.

“Luciana is your daughter, Sir?” Christine asked.

“Yes, and just your age. You will meet her at breakfast tomorrow.” Giovanni glanced at Erik and smiled.

“And we must not forget Erik,” Giovanni said, placing one arthritic stonemason’s hand on Erik’s shoulder.

“Erik quite defies description. Yes, he is a business associate, but that is not all. He is currently managing my firm, was formerly my apprentice—did I tell you he finished his apprenticeship in a year? It’s unheard of! And he has been a member of my household for the past decade. I could wax on his virtues as a musician, architect, magician, and resident genius for quite some time. Although if I did so, I would surely embarrass him.” Blood stung in Erik’s cheeks. Giovanni unmanned him with his respect.

“You’re embarrassing me now,” he said, longing for his quiet cellar room. To their credit, Daae and his daughter did not simper or laugh as if it were a fine jest, but instead nodded solemnly.

“I would be honored to hear more of your story, if you are willing to share,” Daae said in his butchered Italian. Erik’s stomach roiled, his palms damp and clammy with a sudden sweat.

“My tale is not fit for such company,” he said at last, his tone sharp as a drawn blade. Only Giovanni knew the entirety of his life’s wretchedness and that only piecemeal over a span of years and one incidence of drunken questioning. Christine Daae’s ears would never be sullied by his tales of Persia, of that he was certain.

“I am sure you both are very tired. We will speak more in the morning. Signora Donati will take good care of you,” Giovanni said, discreetly brushing the iron-hard muscle of Erik’s forearm. Some of the tension ebbed from him, both at the reassuring touch and the promise of release from his duties for the evening. 

“Thank you, Giovanni,” Daae said.

“And thank you for rescuing us, Erik,” Christine said. Erik bowed.

“Good evening, Monsieur Daae, Mademoiselle. I hope your rest is pleasant.” 

With one last nod to their guests, Erik turned to help Giovanni up the stairs. The house was dark and still, moonlight casting haphazard shadows through the tangle of ivy clothing the outer wall. They paused to rest at the head of the stairs, a sweet breath of air drifting through the open window.

“What do you make of these beggars taking advantage of my hospitality, Erik?” Giovanni’s gasped words were wry, lips quivering in an almost smile.

“I do so hate it when you mock me with my own words, Sir.”

“You’re strong enough to take it, my boy,” Giovanni said, swatting at Erik’s shoulder.

“Gustave is doing the best he can for his daughter.” A pause as they made their awkward three-legged limp toward the bedroom, Giovanni’s harsh breathing acting as metronome. Erik helped Giovanni into his bed, drawing the thin linen coverlet over him. He straightened and faced the open window, drinking in the whisper of a cool breeze. 

“Is there any of my tonic left, Sir?” he asked, peering at the case of dark vials on the bedside table.

“I have taken my evening dose already. It took two vials to ease the tightness.” Erik frowned. He had already brewed the tincture for maximum potency. Two vials . . . that was worrying. 

“And the sputum? Any blood?”

“Not a drop. Just a touch of froth, and that infrequently.” Erik folded his arms over his chest.

“Truly, Sir?” 

Even supine and tucked in as cozily as a kitten, Giovanni still possessed enough presence to glare at Erik.

“What cause would I have to mislead you?” 

Erik pursed his lips in reply.

“Don’t play the innocent. You have a nasty habit of sidestepping an uncomfortable question with a question of your own.”

“And you worry too much. If I wanted a nursemaid, I could find one without beard stubble on her cheeks.” 

Erik snorted, lifting Giovanni’s shoulders so he could sip cool tea from a glass. He made a show of wiping Giovanni’s mouth and organizing the glasses and vials on the bedside table.

“I wish only for your recovery.” The words seemed so soft, bland. Giovanni’s hand rested lightly on Erik’s forearm. A glancing touch, like trying to gentle a startled animal.

“I know, my boy. I know.” The silence that followed was pregnant with all the weepy emotional confessions they kept bottled. 

“Get some rest, Sir. We will speak more in the morning.”

“Very well. Goodnight, Erik.”

“Goodnight, Sir.” Erik broke free from the pressing closeness of the house and breathed in the night’s cool air. The old spinet beckoned, but Erik resisted its lure. Don Juan would have to wait. He would not surface again tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Angsty Erik and shy Christine are my favorite


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting the stage

Chapter 3

 

Christine kicked off the thin blanket with an irritated huff. Papa’s heavy, wet snuffles broke the throbbing silence, and she felt a moment’s peace at the thought of his untroubled rest. After months of rusty barges, cramped coaches and flea-bitten inns, Christine was passionately grateful to be clean, fed and blessedly still. But this heat . . . it was as if the very air perspired, a humid kiss that left her shift sticking to her body in places and her mane of hair clinging to her neck. The window beckoned, and she rolled off of her pallet and climbed into the window’s cushioned seat.  
She nudged the window open wider with her foot, and sighed as the breath of a cool breeze baptized her. Rome rose around her, grand and austere, laden with centuries of history. Giovanni Marchesi’s home was a sturdy, respectable building of three floors, tucked behind a cobbled courtyard. Christine loved the fountain most, sitting obstinate in the center of the courtyard. It was the imposing figure of a merman—Neptune, perhaps?—with a chariot pulled by dolphins. The water arched from the three prongs of his trident. The wind shifted and brought a fine spray through her window. She hissed in a breath at the sudden, wonderful chill. Had Erik carved that figure?  
Her mind whirred and spun like the workings of a demented clock. Erik . . . he was such a mystery. Giovanni, who seemed to be the soul of honest good humor, heaped the impossible praise of a proud parent on Erik’s broad shoulders: genius, architect, musician. And his voice. Christine heaved a sigh, her breath blooming into a ring of white condensation on the glass. Taken of itself, it was the voice of an angel. It was color made audible, emotion given voice. Even terse and dry, uttering phrases she could not understand, his voice filled her with such breathless exaltation, a ridiculous joy that made her heart hammer and her soul soar. Then, oh, the low, liquid purr of his French, a language already ripe with temptation! And his mask, her fingers itched to peel it back, see what it hid and unearth his mystery.  
A nagging voice pointed out that Giovanni was a man of some means, and Papa had planned on preying on his kindness and charity for their survival. Christine knew they had precisely three bills left in their purse, and everything they owned packed between Papa’s trunk and Christine’s suitcase. For the winter, indeed for their foreseeable future, they existed on Giovanni Marchesi’s favor. He had mentioned a daughter . . . a tiny, anxious kernel of hope settled in her heart. Her parting from Meg and Madame Giry had been bitterly painful; Christine had wept on her pallet for weeks after they left Paris. I hope she likes me. I hope we can be friends.  
It was an anemic hope; Christine’s shyness left her tongue-tied, and the barrier of language yawned between them. She stifled a snort at the mental image of Erik translating girlish gossip in his heavenly voice. Stilled by the more delicious thoughts of Giovanni’s apprentice, Christine felt a pleasant lassitude loosen her limbs. A small, dreamy smile tugging at her lips, she returned to her pallet, listening to the fountain’s music. She must try to tame her hair for breakfast tomorrow. She must make a good impression on Giovanni’s daughter. And Erik.

 

“Wake up, lilla gumman. We must dress for breakfast,” Papa’s gruff, sleep-hoarsened voice accompanied by a gentle shake of her shoulder roused her from a tangle of repetitive, confusing dreams. With a groan, Christine rolled onto her back and kicked off the coverlet tangled around her legs, feeling sweaty and rumpled. Papa watched her progress with some amusement from the reflection of a small shaving mirror against the wall, shaving soap smeared on his lean cheeks. Blinding lemony sunlight poured in the window, stabbing her sensitive eyes. Why was the sun so bright? Christine scrubbed her face with her hands in an effort to clear the lingering fog of sleep.  
“Signora Donati left a basin for washing and ironed that blue gown of yours,” Papa said, dragging the straight razor down the angle of his jaw. Rising from her pallet, Christine eyed the light blue gown, carefully laid out on the window seat and her heart softened. The Signora was really a motherly sort, underneath the brash Italian temper. Christine stepped behind the changing screen and traded her nightgown for her shift, petticoats and corset—front-lacing in a Gypsy style to prevent any embarrassing gaffes with her father. While it did little to improve her mood, the act of donning a woman’s armor shook off the last of the fatigue.  
“Giovanni is a very kind man,” she said, voice muffled by the cloth of her gown as she shimmied into it.  
“Ah ah, älskling. In Italian, now. We must try and adapt.” Christine heaved a sigh. Their journey here had been punctuated with truly torturous Italian lessons.  
“Giovanni é . . . buona.” Her tongue stumbled clumsily around the unfamiliar syllables.  
“No. No. Giovanni é gentile,” Papa corrected. Christine pulled a snarling face in her father’s direction behind the protection of the changing screen. God, she couldn’t tolerate the weight of her Papa’s expectation, the desperate pressure for these people to find her charming. How was she to be charming when words clogged her throat and their eyes upon her made her want to melt into the floor? Christine shimmied into her blue dress, a modest affair that had become embarrassingly snug around the bosom and hips. She emerged, finding her Papa carefully shaving his upper lip. The stubble peppering his cheeks glinted with more silver than she remembered. At least he looked well-rested. Perhaps Rome’s heat would be good for him.  
“What do you know of Giovanni, Papa? What happened to his wife? Did he speak of his daughter?” Christine paused, parting her wild hair into sections and attacking it with a comb.  
“And what about Erik?” she asked, tacking the words on as an afterthought. At least she tried to make it sound like an afterthought. Papa shrugged, wiping the remnants of shaving soap from his face.  
“We have exchanged letters for some time. Giovanni and I share the common bond of widowerhood, though he was blessed with twenty years with his Isabelle.” Her hand faltered mid-pull on the comb. The absurd impulse to apologize flew to her lips. Mama had died in childbirth, after all. Papa turned and smiled.  
“Giovanni and I are also blessed with the best daughters in the world.” Christine ducked her head to hide her blush.  
“Oh Papa, stop! Did he ever mention Erik?” Papa turned back to the mirror and began tying his cravat.  
“In his letters, he called Erik his adopted son. He neglected to mention his age and his . . . defect.”  
“Defect?” Christine repeated, horrified by the harsh tone. And what did his age have anything to do with it? Erik was a man in his prime!  
“Why else would he wear a mask, älskling? And he’s so stiff, so secretive! I don’t trust him.”  
“Papa, I’m surprised at you!” Christine scolded, nudging him aside to finish her ablutions before the mirror.  
“Giovanni obviously adores Erik,” she said, dampening a cloth from the ewer to wash her face. Over her shoulder, she saw her papa scowl.  
“Giovanni is a kind man, but also much too trusting. What if this Erik is working to take control of Giovanni’s business?” Yes, Giovanni was trusting and good-hearted; Papa had counted on that to see the two of them through the winter. Christine stomped on these mutinous thoughts, scrutinizing her appearance. She looked the best that cold water—tepid, really, she hadn’t had cold water since France—and a comb could make her.  
“He wouldn’t do that,” she said quietly. A man who blushed at his adopted father’s praise wouldn’t simultaneously plan to usurp that same father’s business.  
“Come, Christine. Let us join them for breakfast. Perhaps tonight we’ll play for them, hmm?” Papa said, pressing a glancing kiss to her hair. Sighing, she followed, feeling as if she had already breakfasted on broken glass.

XXX

Erik was joining them for breakfast—a rare occurrence. Usually he was off at whatever site he was working on before the sun rose. Usually he did not return until siesta time had his workers scurrying home, and by then he wanted nothing more than the company of his dusty trinkets and the quiet of his cellar room. Luciana had tried everything to get him to dine with them, she had flirted, teased, cajoled and mocked, but none of it had scratched the surface of that reserve he wore like armor. Now their guests were to come for breakfast and Erik was in attendance. Since she saw him so rarely in the morning hours, Luciana let her eyes wander hungrily over him, relishing the slightly mussed hair, freshly-shaven cheeks, and the flattering informality of him in his shirtsleeves.  
“Good morning, Luciana,” he said, taking his seat to her right.  
“Good morning Erik.” Her voice came out wrong, all giggly and high. His smile was knife-thin, long graceful hands preparing his coffee to his liking. A dollop of cream and no sugar, she noticed. His visible brow quirked on question, offering the dish of cream.  
“Yes, please,” she said, offering a sunny smile. She’d spent some time on her hair this morning, braiding and twisting it into a crown around her head with soft little tendrils framing her face. The look was very flattering, if she said so herself. But, frustratingly, Erik seemed far more interested in the schematic Papa had spread on the table than her.  
“Sir, we have the façade finished, and western portico laid, but the difficulty lies here . . .” Papa’s reply was an incomprehensible string of mason’s gibberish, and Luciana heaved a sigh. Scowling at the fine bone-white china, she added cream to her coffee and watched as it churned and bloomed in mesmerizing patterns. A hoarse voice interrupted her internal stream of vitriol.  
“Good morning all!” All three of them stood, Papa a bit slower, bracing his gnarled hands on the pristine tablecloth.  
Descending the stair was who she assumed to be Gustave Daae. Signora Donati had clucked and muttered about them when she came to wake Luciana. He certainly was a homely sort, and so short! He would stand only to Erik’s shoulder, surely. His eyes were wide and pleasing, though, a lovely shade of brown. Luciana smiled thinly and made her greetings, peering behind the man to catch a glimpse of the daughter. She was no beauty, certainly. Some of Luciana’s tension ebbed with this realization, her gaze flickering over the unmanageable hair, the awkward slenderness, her sallow pallor. She was of the same height as Luciana herself and she had her father’s brown eyes. A quick glance at Erik found him wearing the same look of distant courtesy he gave everyone. Feeling much happier, Luciana pasted on a beaming smile, breathing kisses over their cheeks in greeting. The five of them settled into their seats and began filling their plates with alacrity. Seated on Luciana’s left, the Swedish girl Christine turned to her.  
“Buongiorno, Signorina. Che . . . che piacere vederti.” Luciana giggled, amused by the look of furrowed concentration on the other girl’s face, coupled with an atrocious accent as she managed a simple ‘hello’ and ‘nice to meet you.’ With a bashful smile, she looked past Luciana at Erik and said something in French.  
“Christine would like to apologize for her Italian,” Erik said, the tiniest hint of amusement warming the green ice of his eyes. A thorn of jealousy struck deep, but Luciana laughed it off, drawing a friendly arm around Christine’s shoulders.  
“Tell her I don’t mind. As long as we have you nearby to translate!” she giggled, patting his arm awkwardly. Dutifully, Erik translated. Christine smiled, turning her attention to the skewers of sausage, sweet peppers and onions arrayed on the table.  
“How does one go about eating this?” she asked through Erik. He answered in French and Christine replied in kind while Luciana stewed. She watched through a false smile as Christine offered a doe-eyed, trembling smile to Erik, nearly dragging a snarl of her curly hair in her water glass. Luciana knew just the type, those who used their shyness as a lure to melt the nearest gallant male heart. Once, Luciana had played that role to the hilt. The ghost of a grin looked foreign on Erik’s face, it made him younger and warmer and closer . . . and Luciana hated Christine for being the one to bring it to his face.  
“Isn’t it obvious?” Luciana asked. The grin melted from Erik’s face, green eyes meeting her black ones with a sharp, cold jolt.  
“There is no need to be rude, Luciana,” he said, with infuriating simplicity.  
“Rude? You’re the ones being rude, chatting away when you know I can’t understand!” she hissed in a low voice. Papa and Gustave were conversing easily enough between halting phrases, oblivious. Erik’s lips pursed into a thin line.  
“My apologies. Christine merely made a point that she had never eaten anything wooden before, and I made the remark that she had, considering that inn-house tea tastes like stewed bark. Scintillating, I know. I see why you were aggrieved to have missed it.” Luciana shrank back in her chair, stung. Erik never joked with her! Why was it that men flocked around a new girl like she was a shiny new toy while the ones they had already were better and prettier?  
“I’m sorry. Tell her the polite way is to slide the morsels off the skewer and eat it with a fork,” Luciana said, gesturing to Christine with a frozen smile. Christine nodded eagerly as Erik relayed her words, copying Luciana’s movements.  
She resisted the impulse to sulk. The best way to regain the upper hand was to simply chatter. Erik would be too busy translating to flirt with the little Swedish sparrow with her ugly hair and odd accent. Nudging Christine’s shoulder with hers, she said conspiratorially, “And if we are feeling especially decadent, we use our fingers. Do you like coffee? No true Italian breakfast is complete without it. And try some biscotti, it really just sweet bread. But be sure to dip it into the coffee, unless you want a cracked tooth!”  
Erik lifted a brow at her renewed enthusiasm, but explained. The meal continued on, with Luciana and Christine conversing in that odd three-cornered way. If Erik tired of the simplicity of the exercise, he gave no sign. Instead he sipped his coffee and continued perusing the schematic, the music of two languages rolling off of his tongue with no discernible effort. Christine listened as Luciana jabbered on about Rome, her house, her friends, the horrid school in Milan, anything and everything she could think of.  
The longer they talked, the more Luciana realized that Christine really was shy. The other girl was more at ease listening and adding small comments than trying to take charge of the conversation. She was disgustingly genuine, and compared to Luciana, woefully uneducated on the finer things in life. Her dress was bordering on shabby, and the silver ring she wore on her littlest finger a tarnished old thing. Now that Erik’s attention was safely pointed in another direction, Luciana was feeling rather generous. She could take this poor, awkward girl and make her into a proper lady with the proper connections. There was no reason they couldn’t be friends.

XXX

Luciana’s swift change in attitude would be enough to give anyone who knew her pause, but Christine was a trusting sort. He could see the cautious eagerness in her smile, the slight stutter of her responses. Out of the tail of his eye, he watched Luciana as she jabbered on. There was a curious, speculative brightness in her eyes, a nearly manic glitter to her smile. Erik found it vaguely fascinating that someone as honest and kind as Giovanni could have had a hand in creating and raising such an inherently selfish creature as Luciana. Her father was horridly indulgent of her habits, helpless before her pouting lip and crumbled quickly in the face of her tantrums.  
Gustave Daae was made of sterner stuff. Christine oriented herself under her father’s direction, an anxious sort of love filling her eyes at every wheeze and cough. He hoped, for her sake, that Luciana agreed to be pleasant. Erik swallowed the last tepid gulp of his coffee and rose.  
“I must beg your pardon, ladies,” he said, first in Italian, then French, “I must be off to the site.”  
“Oh Erik, can’t you let Calandrino handle it for a day?” Luciana protested, delicate brows drawn together in a fearsome scowl. Erik bit back a sharp rejoinder, thankfully rescued by Giovanni.  
“Erik has work that must be done, darling.” The rebuke was gentle, gentler than a fractious filly like her would heed.  
“But Papa, how can--?” God, he hated that whining tone.  
“Luciana.” Erik’s tone was chilly.  
“You’ll still be able to talk to Christine, darling. I’ve hired a translator to help us when Erik is busy.”  
Relieved that he would not be the sole mouthpiece for a pair of talkative young ladies, Erik excused himself with more grace. As he reached the stair, Giovanni called after him: “Oh Erik, you must indulge us this evening. Gustave and Christine have promised to showcase their talents for us.” Music would be the only bait to lure him, and Erik was curious about Gustave’s so-called ‘fame.’ He turned to face the ring of smiling faces and bowed.  
“Of course, Sir. I would not miss it.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was bound to love you when he heard you sing

Chapter 4

In its own fashion, stonemasonry was as consuming as music. Feeling the image locked within the slab aching to take shape under his hands was wonderfully therapeutic for Erik, somehow more . . . tangible than other artistic mediums. Certainly more enduring. If he had his way, he would spend hours with only the stone and his chisel, merging thought into reality with each swing of his hammer. However, by Giovanni’s decree—and thus an almost holy commandment for Erik—he was responsible for all aspects of construction. His direct opposition was embodied in the form of Giovanni’s foreman, Calandrino. Both of them knew what had truly become of the frieze Erik had spent hours carving. Did the fool think he did not see the distinctive divot of a stonemason’s plug and feather in the ruined limestone? 

Erik lacked proof enough to dismiss Calandrino, so he instead sent him home at siesta time without the day’s pay. From then, his afternoon was an exercise in military precision. Erik’s presence, squinting in the afternoon’s heat, quieted any impulse for mischief. And therein lay the heart of Erik’s problem. The men obeyed him without question, but only so long as he was present. The moment he left the site to confer with the client, or a quarryman, or Heaven forbid, actually work on the project, Calandrino and his ilk stirred up all manner of malcontent. And he could not bring his difficulties before Giovanni. Erik shuddered at the very thought. He could not add another stressor to Giovanni’s condition, or worse, appear to be incompetent in managing his men. Let them pull the tiger’s tail, and see what it earns them, he thought with a grim smile. 

It was a quarter until ten when Erik finally arrived back at Giovanni’s house. Sweat had mixed with the fine white dust of powdered limestone, painting him into a pantomime of a ghost. The fine, gritty coating made his skin crawl and thus he was passionately grateful to find that Signora Donati had one of the lads fill him a bath in the storage room above his cellar, cool according to his preferences. Stress melted away as he scrubbed himself in blessed relief from the heat. Erik contemplated the contents of his wardrobe, wondering what level of formality was required to endure the Daae’s dubious skills. In the end, he dressed in a simple waistcoat and trousers, not wishing to shame their guests if they possessed no finery. 

Supper was already in full swing by the time Erik arrived at the table. Jean-Pierre, the young man Giovanni had hired to translate, gave Erik a look of relief to which Erik inwardly chuckled. Keeping up with Luciana’s chatter was tiring in any language.

“Erik! There you are, my boy!” Giovanni’s voice held some of its former body and Erik’s foul mood melted away like fog burned off by the sun.  
“I apologize for my tardiness, Sir. I bid you good evening, ladies, Monsieur Daae,” he said, bowing. Jean-Pierre held a firm grasp of both Romance languages, Erik thought as the other man translated Erik’s sentiments. 

Luciana bounced up from her chair and skipped over to him, breathing two kisses in the air over his cheeks and patently ignoring how he stiffened in discomfort. It would be the height of rudeness to yield to first his impulse of pushing her away, or verbally eviscerating her for such familiar behavior.

“Erik, I’m so glad you’re home! You’ve been gone for ages! Really, why are rocks so fascinating to you and Papa?” As she laughed at her own wit, Erik scented the fruity tang of wine on her breath and saw it in the fever-bright glaze to her dark eyes.

“Our work with those rocks has seen to your comfortable life, Luciana. Now, sit.” Erik forcefully steered her back to the table. Luciana sat with a flounce of mint green skirts, scowling at him from beneath her silky fall of black hair.

“B--Buonasera, Erik,” Christine said with a wobbly little smile, dark eyes darting between him and Luciana. Erik murmured a greeting in return, determined to smooth his own ruffled feathers. Luciana easily wormed her way under his skin; sometimes he swore she did it on purpose. He took his seat to Luciana’s right, murmuring his thanks to Maria as she served him the evening’s meal of arrabbiata, a pasta dish with a thick red sauce spiced with peppers and garlic. A dense, sweet red accompanied the meal, and from the pithy puddle remaining in Luciana’s smudged glass, she had partaken much more than usual.

“How goes it at the site, Signore Erik?” Daae asked in his truncated Italian.

“Well, thank you. There were a few . . . mishaps this afternoon, but all has been smoothed out now.” Jean-Pierre’s voice was soft and unobtrusive as he translated for Christine’s benefit.

“That is good. I have no doubt in your capability, Erik,” Giovanni said with a salute of his glass. Warmth filled his cheeks and Erik was thankful the candles burnt low to hide his boyish blush at Giovanni’s praise.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said softly, burying his embarrassment in his wine glass.

“Erik, you’re just in time. Gustave has promised to play for us,” Giovanni said with a broad grin. Daae swiped his face with his napkin, his wan pallor obliterated by the warm evening air and wine. For Christine’s sake, he hoped Daae health would improve.

“I would be honored by your honest opinion, Monsieur Rousseau. Giovanni speaks very highly of your talents,” Daae’s raspy voice held the progenitor of Christine’s sweet and timid humility, and Erik’s heart softened a little.

“I am certain you will not disappoint, Monsieur. Please.” Erik gestured languidly in the direction of the stool near the open window, gauzy curtains flitting limply in the faint breeze. Beside him Luciana squirmed in her seat, mashing the inquisitive gnats against the tablecloth with fierce concentration. 

Daae rose with a shy smile, accepting the treasured case Francesco had fetched for him. Erik watched with approval as Daae cradled his beloved instrument, tuning it with deft fingers and a trained ear, rosining the bow and drawing a few exploratory notes. He knew intimately that look of utter peace, that inward abstraction that graced Daae’s crudely handsome features. Music was lifeblood to the Swede as surely as it was to Erik, and he felt a vague kinship based on that slender tie. 

Daae’s fame was justly earned, Erik concluded as he listened to the elder man’s rendition of Schumann’s Fantasiestücke pieces. Even though designed as a duet, the dreamy, almost melancholy notes shone all the purer when sang in the violin’s mournful solo. Erik leaned back in his chair in complete contentment, the trills and sighs from Daae’s battered violin winding around him like a spool of fine silk. The occasional missed note or the squeal of an elderly bow did not detract from the beauty of his playing. Hushed silence reigned over the table as Daae completed the song, Christine applauding with enthusiasm.

“Thank you, Monsieur. You honor us with your talent,” Erik said, toasting Daae solemnly.

“Yes, thank you Gustave,” Giovanni echoed, swiftly interpreted by Jean-Pierre, “What was that? Bach?” 

“Schumann,” Christine and Erik said at the same time. Erik grinned at her, charmed by her blush. 

There was short, painful silence. Erik clenched his jaw, waiting for Luciana to voice her polite agreement. Even if Daae’s playing had been execrable, manners dictated at least acknowledging his effort. 

“What did you think of Signore Daae’s rendition, Luciana?” Erik said, unable to keep the brittle edge from his words, like the whetted edge of a stone knife. Luciana lurched up straighter in her seat, blinking in feigned innocence.

“Oh, forgive me. You caught me wool-gathering. Signore Daae played so well, he almost had me drifting off!” Luciana’s laugh held a tinny, over-bright edge, and grated Erik’s nerves. Giovanni cast an apologetic glance at Daae and Erik doused the words of censure burning in his throat with a swallow of wine. Shrugging eloquently, Daae cast a fond smile at his daughter.

“What about you, älskling? Come, share your talent with our hosts.”

“Oh Papa, I couldn’t--”

“Nonsense. Come and sing for us.” 

A deaf man could have heard the tone of command beneath the wine-soft words. Erik felt a moment’s profound sympathy for the girl; her father had proven to be a sensitive and doting parent, he must not have noticed her painful shyness. Christine scurried to obey, the hem of her dress snagging a little on the arm of the wrought iron chair as she stood. She stopped beside the window, twisting the ring on her littlest finger, staring at the floor as if it held the answers to the riddles of the cosmos.

“W—What shall I sing for you?” she said.

“Sing Faust for them, älskling. You play Margarita so beautifully.” 

Christine nodded, nervously shoving her frizzy mane of curls from her forehead. Beneath her breath, she hummed a few scales and cleared her throat while the composer in Erik nodded in appreciation. No matter the musical skill of the parent, Erik knew that the gift had not necessarily translated to the child, no matter said parent’s doting praise. As with her father, Erik composed himself to be quietly disappointed. Then, she began to sing.

Oh, how strange!   
Like a spell does the evening bind me!  
And a deep languid charm  
I feel without alarm  
With its melody enwind me  
And all my heart subdue . . . 

His eyes slipped closed. God, her voice. Clear, sweet, pure . . . beauty incarnate. It wrapped around him, burrowed its diaphanous tendrils into his soul. Helpless, he sank deep into the exquisite honeyed sweetness, seeking the ecstasy she promised so innocently in the notes. Blood and heat began to thrum and pool.  
Christine . . . 

XXX

If Gustave Daae’s playing had been horridly dull, then Christine’s voice was torturous. Not from something as simple as boredom, oh no. It was torture watching Erik. The wine’s soft, blurry feeling, the heady buzzing in her head ceased at the first thin note, like a sliver of glass shoved under her skin. The Swedish twit was just standing there, in her shabby dress with her wild hair, just standing there, and Erik closed his eyes. And God, he looked like . . . Luciana had never seen that look before, a look of sublime happiness. As if he had heard an angel’s voice. Almost like . . . almost like he was being pleasured. 

Her stomach roiled with a sudden, violent nausea, the wine turning to flame touched by the ember of jealousy. Then, Erik was on his feet, green eyes wide and bewildered. His Adam’s apple bobbed, lips quivering over soundless words. Erik, at a loss for words? Erik, disheveled and undone by her? A muscle fired as he clenched his jaw, and then he was gone, striding from the room without a word.

“Oh, what have I done? What have I done to give offense?” Christine’s speaking voice—duller and smaller than her singing voice—grated on Luciana’s last nerve. 

She wanted to dash her wine in the Swedish twit’s face, she wanted to slap her and tear out her hair by the handful, to destroy whatever he saw that was so utterly beautiful in her. Dousing her hate with wine, Luciana summoned a languid smile.

“Oh dear,” she said, her tone flirting with a sneer, “he must not have liked that song.” Christine’s brow puckered in dismay as Jean-Pierre related the words.

“Sh—Shall I go apologize?”

“No, no, my dear. Don’t trouble yourself. You did not offend any of us. Your voice is divine, Christine, truly. I’ll speak with Erik.” Papa said, laboriously rising. Francesco appeared, cupping Papa’s elbow to help him along.

“Luciana, would you take our guests up to the rooftop garden? I’m sure it is much cooler up there. We could take dessert there.” 

Luciana’s lips pursed into a pout. Ugh, she would not be forced with exchange pleasantries with a dull brick like Gustave Daae. Didn’t anyone care how she felt? But she buried her resentment deep inside, with enough air to let it fester and grow, while she smiled and led the Daae’s and Jean-Pierre up to the rooftop. The cool air washed over her and Luciana took a bracing breath. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I will go help Signora Donati with dessert,” she said, not waiting for Jean-Pierre to interpret. 

Gathering a handful of her dress, she clattered down the stairs, rounding the corner to where she knew Erik would be hiding. She pressed against the sun-warmed wall, steadying her breathing. Papa was there alone at the door of Erik’s cellar room. Luciana crept along the wall, pressed against the mouth of the stair, close enough to hear. 

“Erik! Erik, you must come out, my boy. The poor girl thinks she offended you.” 

“Please give Signorina Daae my apologies, Sir. I . . . I am unfit for company at the moment.” Erik voice, muffled by the door, sounded odd, shaky. Papa leaned against the doorjamb, looking stooped and weary. A small smile quivered beneath his mustache, though. Luciana could see it in the light of the candle housed in its sconce.

“I found her singing quite lovely, but perhaps I am a poor judge. Was it truly atrocious?” Erik’s reply was swift: “No!” 

Then again, softer: “No. It was . . . perfect.” Luciana bit her knuckle to stifle a squeal of indignation. Perfect? Perfect?

“Perfect?” Papa asked, matching Erik’s soft tone.

“Her voice . . . her voice could make the angels weep, Sir. Surely you heard it?” Hot, tinny blood touched her tongue. She’d pierced the skin? Luciana looked at her bleeding finger in confusion. It hadn’t even hurt. The words did though. They carved themselves into her heart. A heart she would turn to stone. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that Erik had found something so lovely in Christine. Luciana resolved to mold the other girl into something he would hate. He could love her voice, but not Christine. Erik belonged to Luciana. He’d see it soon enough.

XXX

The confection of cake crumbs soaked in coffee and slathered with cream tasted wonderful, but Christine could not shake the quivering anxiety making her stomach roil. He’d hated her voice, she was sure of it. Why else would it affect him so? God, what would happen to them now? Christine listlessly picked apart the layers of the dessert on her plate, unwilling to meet Papa’s eye or try again to engage Luciana in conversation. The other girl was hacking at her dessert with particular malice, pausing only to drink more wine. She’d ruined it. She’d committed some horrible wrong. Giovanni was too kind a man to turn them out just yet, but he would, once Erik recovered from his shock. 

Mercifully, Giovanni soon called an end to the meal, with a self-deprecating quip about his old bones. Jean-Pierre accepted his pay and said his goodbyes for the evening. Luciana disappeared down the stairs with a flounce of green skirts and perfume, leaving Christine and her papa alone at the small table on the rooftop. The potted plants smelled richly of damp earth and sunbaked stone, the cloying perfume of their delicate buds opening to the night’s cool touch.

“He must hate me,” Christine said, addressing the wavering flame of the lamp. Hot tears were bottled in her throat, a fierce blush staining her cheeks. Beneath the words were questions, ones she scarcely acknowledged: Do you hate me? Why did you make me sing? 

“It is not Erik’s opinion that matters, Christine.” Oh, he sounded so weary. Ashamed, maybe? Christine risked a glance at him. Papa sat with his elbows braced on the table, looking as if even drawing his next breath was a trial. Christine slouched deeper into her seat, wishing she could just melt away somewhere dark and quiet. 

“Giovanni loved your voice. They won’t throw us to the cold just yet, my girl.” Papa’s hand covered hers on the arm of her chair. Perversely, the comforting touch made her closer to coming apart at the seams. Two stubborn tears leaked from her eyes and she sniffled. 

“But why did he react that way? What did I do wrong?” Her voice didn’t sound like anything but a croaking frog’s at the moment, but Papa said she had a good voice. Papa’s smile was fragile, but affectionate. More tears welled up and fell, now in relief more than anything. 

“Nothing, älskling. Whatever flew up Erik Rousseau’s nose is not our problem. Hear me?”

“I hear you, Papa,” she said, flinging her arms around him for a soggy embrace. 

“Oh my girl, it’s all right. Hush now, Christine,” Papa crooned into her hair, as if she had scraped her knee or had a nightmare. Caught between gratitude for his comfort and a prickly, defensive irritation, Christine pulled away. Fussily, she straightened Papa’s cravat, faintly proud of the lace she’d salvaged from a discarded shawl. 

“You go on to bed, Papa. I’d like to take some air up here a while.” Papa leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Christine’s forehead, dark eyes gentle.

“Very well. Don’t you worry. We’ll be just fine,” he said, imparting one last squeeze on her hand before making his laborious way down the stairs.

The stillness of the night began to settle around her and Christine felt her jittery tension begin to seep away. It was silly, really. Why did Erik’s opinion matter to her? Whatever his reputed musical skill, it was really very rude to stalk off without a word! Exhaling a breath, Christine rose and began to walk, aimless, weaving her way through the potted plants. Over and over in her head she saw his face when she sang. A strange sort of shudder seemed to run through him, his eyes drifting closed . . . 

“Mademoiselle?” That voice shivered through her, like a cool, grazing touch down her back. Christine turned, heart in her throat, to find Erik standing at the head of the stairs. 

“Erik,” she said, her voice emerging in a strangled squeak. He looked disheveled, hair mussed, cravat gone, several of the buttons of his shirt left undone. She tried not to let her eyes stray to that tantalizing spot at the base of his throat, a spot she felt the absurd urge to press her lips against. 

“I . . . Mademoiselle, I would . . .” Erik was stuttering? He was as nervous and awkward as she? It was a soothing thought, and the tight coil of anxiety wound around her loosened. Erik took a couple steps toward the table, an idle fingertip grazing the rim of a wine glass.

“What is it, Erik?” she asked, gently. Those vividly green eyes made meeting his gaze exciting and oddly uncomfortable. He looked up at her, the masked and unmasked sides creating a rather striking image. 

“I would like to make my apologies for leaving so abruptly. It was the height of rudeness and I sincerely beg for your pardon.” He wove sorrow into the syllables, so poignant and sincere that tears filled her eyes. Mastering herself, Christine offered a wobbly smile, tilting her head to one side.

“Why did you? Was my singing truly so abhorrent?” the tone didn’t quite reach the cajoling lightness she wanted, instead it sounded petulant, young. A strong emotion gripped him, rippled through the line of his shoulders and clenched his fists. Stormy green eyes held hers, full of half a dozen emotions, dismay chief among them.

“No. You mustn’t think that, Christine. Your voice is a gift.” Christine’s heart skipped, both at the fierce vehemence of his voice and the words themselves. Her hand fluttered up to rest at the base of her throat, feeling the incensed throb of her pulse against her fingertips. 

“A gift?” she repeated. Papa said her voice was pretty, that she sang well. But a gift? It was bewildering, flattering praise he offered.

“Yes,” he said softly, absently. Christine shifted, feeling the heat of the blush staining her cheeks. 

“I . . . I should get to bed, Monsieur. It’s late.” He blinked, and nodded.

“Yes, yes of course. Goodnight, Mademoiselle.”

“Goodnight, Erik,” she said, skirting past him toward the safety of the stairs. As she walked, she tried not to think of the aching loneliness she saw in his eyes or the lurch in her own heart in response to it.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Erik was well-acquainted with all manner of human vice. A creature born from as wretched of circumstances as he and raised in the face of black hate, it was only natural. Murder, thievery, blasphemy, and addiction . . . and those were only the ones he’d committed himself. Staggering off that wretched boat a decade ago half-dead both from the khanum’s poison and morphine withdrawal, Erik had sought an easy victim with enough coin to find a room for the night. Instead, he’d found Giovanni. The man had answered a drawn knife with laconic indifference and Erik’s vitriolic insults with ironic tolerance.

But as acquainted with sin as Erik was, lust was a new endeavor. In fact, he had thought himself beyond the urgent throbbings of adolescence. Persia had purged him of many of his more heated longings, or so he thought. He found contentment in whatever capacity Giovanni deigned to give him, contentment with his music and his work. Then an angel’s voice pierced him with a burning sword of pure sound, and he was lost, aflame with a sudden, wretched longing. Hadn’t he found himself in his basement room, unbearably hard and in mortal agony for the despicable truth of his fleshly hungers? Hadn’t he taken himself in hand, and found blindingly intense release at the memory of her sweet face and haunting beauty hidden within her? Hadn’t he gasped her name as he came?   
Freshly tidied from his shameful act, he had sought her out. A cynical voice in his mind had told him to reassure himself that she was simply mortal, with nothing remarkable about her. But it was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, and instead of a shy, sweet wallflower of a guest, he now saw Christine. She had always been a lovely girl, but after hearing her sing, he found her every feature exquisite. His senses were deliciously heightened in her presence, eager for the faintest whisper of her scent: violet soap and clean linen and . . . and beneath that the succulent ripeness of a young woman. 

She stood framed between the flowers gently swaying in the breeze, awash with moonlight. A young Diana, skittish and shy, poised to flee. With wounded, innocent eyes she questioned his leaving and Erik raged inwardly. Why her? Why after all these years of pining fruitlessly for a mate would his wretched soul latch onto her? So sweet, so young, so unfit for his scarred carcass and damaged, twisted soul. His hasty words seemed to reassure her, soft, rosy color staining her cheeks. Lovely. His mind gobbled up tiny details in an exercise of self-torture: the neat shape of her ear as she nervously tucked back her curls, her ragged, bitten fingernails, the startling generosity of her mouth . . . 

Then she edging past him toward the safety of the house, and he stepped back, lest even the hem of her gown graze him. His sin was horrid. Christine was too young, too trusting, too pure for the likes of him. This would pass, he consoled himself. The infatuation would pass; the lust would burn away soon enough. Erik simply had to endure it, and quietly. Inspiration crackled through his veins with the same incendiary power as lust, and for the first time in weeks, Erik turned his steps toward his writing table. He would channel his impossible longing into composing something beautiful. 

 

Giovanni had seen beneath Erik’s reserve often enough to discern when his mood was false. So Erik schooled his features to inscrutability as he made his way to the breakfast table the next morning. If the cambric shirt he wore flattered him, or his grooming was impeccable, it was simply coincidence.

“Good morning, Luciana, Sir.” He uttered his customary greeting with his usual aplomb, nodding to each of them as he took his seat. Giovanni’s smile was swift and easy, and Erik relaxed inwardly. Erik’s poor manners the night before had not displeased him then. Luciana barely responded, choosing instead to slouch over her coffee, eyes swollen and face pinched. Caught between faint amusement and distant sympathy, Erik concluded that she was paying for her evening of excess.

He snagged a cornetto from the platter and dipped it into his coffee. Hot, rich flavor coursed over his tongue as he took a dripping bite. Just as he was dabbing the remnants of coffee from his chin, Daae and Christine made their morning’s greetings. The surge of exquisite turmoil that filled him at the sight of her stole his breath. God, he was such a loathsome creature, to long for such an innocent girl. Offering his greetings, he focused on his meal with fierce concentration, determined not to stare. Had she rested well? Was her father’s ill health troubling her? Perhaps he could share his healer’s skills in hopes of-- Jolted by the mention of his name, Erik blinked at Giovanni.

“Sir?” he asked. 

“I said since it is Saturday, we should show our guests some of the city. Would you be amenable to escorting these young ladies around the city? Share with them the beauty of Rome?”

“Oh Papa, they don’t want to see some dusty old buildings. Can’t I take Christine with me to Michaela’s salon?” Luciana said, surging forward in her chair. A distant alarm bell pealed at that speculative gleam in Luciana’s eye. For himself, he was grateful for the offered diversion. Reeling drunkenly from the blow of her voice, Erik did not trust himself in Christine’s presence.

“It is for the lady to decide, Sir,” Erik said, allowing his gaze to flit over Christine. Flushed and dewy from sleep, there was a languor to her expression that Erik found unbearable. He dearly wished he could press a kiss to that tender, tantalizing spot beneath her ear, peeking through her mane of hair. How would her skin taste--? Erik snapped his attention back to the subject at hand. 

“C—could we accomplish both? I would like to go with Luciana to the salon, but could we trouble Erik for a tour this evening?” Erik waited as Jean-Pierre interpreted, steeling his resolve against his hungrily roving eye. He must not let his thoughts stray. Therein lay danger and madness. It was better, safer to contemplate life’s banalities. Jean-Pierre, for example. So much was lost through a translator, he reflected. Tone and inflection, the nuances of humor—

“That will work, I suppose,” Luciana said, slouched in her chair, stirring her coffee. Luciana’s sullenness could transcend language, Erik thought, glancing at Christine. He saw the flash of uncertainty, the anxious fear she had disrupted her friend’s plans.

“Good, it’s settled then. You will go to the salon, and then Erik will escort you about the city before supper,” Giovanni’s voice was brisk; his sidelong glance relating to Erik that he had not missed that little byplay. Grateful for the momentary reprieve—and a deeper traitorous joy at the thought of being near her—Erik took a decorous sip of his coffee.

“I await your pleasure, ladies. I shall see you this evening,” he said in both languages with a grave nod. Christine smiled at him and he jealously captured the soft wavering glow as one would shield the flame of candle with their palm. Yes, he could easily make a fool of himself for her smiles. 

“Erik, in the meantime, bring the Valestro schematics to the study. I would like to show Gustave what it is we do.”

“I was unaware of your interest in stonemasonry, Sir,” Erik addressed Daae with a look of bland attention. Rome’s climate seemed to settle heavily on the Swede, judging from the manner in which he perspired. Erik’s clinical gaze noted the flare of his nostrils and the use of shoulder muscles to aid in breathing. Perhaps his tincture for Giovanni would ease the effort. His smile was like his daughter’s, sweet and without guile.

“I must admit I know little of the art, Monsieur Rousseau, but I am eager to learn,” Daae said. Erik’s answering smile was knife thin. He had little tolerance for enduring a novice’s blundering attempt at educated conversation, but Giovanni insisted. 

“I shall meet you both in the study, then,” Erik said, finishing his coffee and offering his farewells.

“I look forward to seeing you, Erik.” Christine’s voice floated after him, snaring him with a loop of spun silver and sweet dew. He closed his eyes and exhaled a slow breath. He knew he had to deaden himself to beauty of that voice, but how could he when his soul was compelled to worship it? No songs within her head but songs of joy . . . 

“Enjoy your afternoon, mademoiselle. I shall see you this evening,” he replied.

Through the predicted tedium of conversing with Gustave Daae on the finer points of stonemasonry, and later in the cool privacy of his room, Erik allowed a small corner of his mind to fret over Christine. Coupled with the blinding lust and the soul-deep yearning was an anxious tenderness, a grasping desire to shelter her from the world's cruel truths. Adolescent girls were notorious for their soft-voiced cruelty, and Luciana was certainly their empress. The gap of language made the worry sharper. Luciana and her ilk could mock Christine wholly without her understanding. He would teach her Italian. Surely the Latin-flavored words couldn't inflame him any more than the savor of his home tongue on her lips.

Settled by the thought, Erik contemplated the score he'd written through the night, scourged by the exquisite beauty of Christine's voice. Erik tapped the tempo with the nub of his pen, immersing himself in the mournful cello, the playful pianoforte, and the weaker, thinner shadow of Christine's voice, the humble piccolo. Longing breathed in each rest, a song of love unrequited.

He was bound to love you when he heard you sing . . .

A loud rapping knock disturbed his concentration and a swift glance at his clock told him the hour was almost four in the afternoon. Erik's heart leapt to his throat, ink-stained fingers adjusting his mask and straightening his cuffs as he rose to answer the door. The breathless hope fell and shattered when he saw it was Luciana who summoned him. Inwardly, he chastised himself for his boyish mooning for Christine.

"Busy with your dusty old trinkets, Erik?" she said, in lieu of a greeting. The coy bow of her lips suggested teasing, but Erik could hear the waspish bite in the words. His smile was more akin to a grimace.

"Your interruption would no doubt supersede even the most important of labors, Luciana. I take it your outing was satisfactory?" In response, Luciana rolled her eyes expressively.

"I suppose. It is quite tedious waiting for a translator, isn't it? But Christine is such a darling, Michaela took to her immediately." Erik fixed Luciana with his patented cool stare. A bubbly creature like her dissolved under its weight. Usually. Luciana lifted her chin, dark eyes coy and challenging.

"Signorina Daae is our guest, Luciana. Your father would not like it if she were maltreated." Nor would I, was the glaring subtext. A frown creased Luciana's round, beautiful face, a flash of childish hurt in her eyes.

"I know. Despite what you think, I'm not an idiot. Come on, we're ready for our tour." Erik allowed the comment to rest, steeling his nerves against the assault of Christine. He mounted the steps at Luciana's heels, beaten by the sun's passionate heat. The mist of the fountain caught the light of the sunset and Erik was struck by a vision of Christine haloed in crystals of gold. An angel.

"Buenosera, Erik," Christine said with her small, shy smile. Her hair, what had they done to her hair? Christine's wild curls were subdued and bent into a torturous shape, braided and piled atop her head. Erik's fingers twitched at his sides, longing to pluck away the pins and have the rich bounty of her hair spill over his hands. He could tangle his fingers in it, control the angle of her head as he bent to kiss—Erik cleared his throat.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle. I see you did not escape the salon unscathed." Jean-Pierre interpreted for Luciana's benefit, but Erik's attention was fixed solely on Christine. There was no guile or artifice in her. In those soft, dark eyes he could see the shy flattery, a spark of humor and the guarded pleasure of new acquaintances.

"Ah, yes. Do you like it? Luciana's friends were very generous. They wished to straighten it with a hot iron, but I hadn't the courage." Her hand grazed over her hair. It brought Erik's focus to the soft nape of her neck. God, how could he look at her and not want her, the soft nubile body hiding an angel's voice?

"It looks lovely," he said, congratulating himself on the even, almost bored tone.

"We'll make a socialite of her yet," Luciana followed the words with an over-bright laugh. Francesco had hitched up the phaeton with Giovanni's matched bay driving horses arch-necked and spirited. Jean-Pierre mounted the step and offered his hand to help Luciana alight. It was pure happenstance that Erik guided Christine to the phaeton's bench. After a moment's delicate deliberation, Erik took his seat between Luciana and Christine, hands braced on his knees. The nerves of his left side quivered and sang with joy at every brush of her shoulder or knee against his, the whisper of her gown and the faint wafting of her scent. He cleared his throat.

"What shall we see this evening, ladies? St. Peter's? The Trevi fountain? The Piazza del Popolo? The Spanish steps?"

"Might we see it all? I must admit, Papa was not an exacting tutor of history, so I should plead my ignorance. But I would like very much to learn, and I am sure it's very beautiful," Christine asked. An echo of her father's voice this morning, but far more enjoyable, in Erik's opinion.

"I never liked history. Boring, dusty and long gone." Even whilst commiserating, Luciana managed to sound selfish and vain.

"A personal preference, but I would happily share what I know," Erik said, his voice cool and his tone noncommittal. He would be civil, though Luciana's presence grated.

The ride was pleasant, and not solely from Christine's company. Luciana behaved admirably well for one who would rather throw a tantrum than read about history—as Erik's prior experience would recall. Tucked in the slanting shadows of lengthening evening, the ride was cool, and even the jostling on cobbled streets was smoothed by well-oiled springs beneath the phaeton's bed. Erik spoke in slow, staccato Italian, allowing time for Jean-Pierre to interpret.

"As you can see over Luciana's side, there is the central figure of Oceanus, or god of all water. The scene's composition is meant to describe the 'taming of waters.'"

"What is that . . . creature there?" Christine asked, pointing to the left-hand side just below one of the niches.

"That is a hippocamp, a figure in ancient mythology. A sea-horse is an adequate way to describe it," he said.

"I only know a little of Greek and Roman mythology. Papa always used to tell me the frightening stories, dark stories of the North, he calls them."

"Norse mythology, then? Valkyries, dark elves, wolves and the like?" A discreet shudder raced through Christine, and Erik saw the roots of a childhood haunting. 

Privately Erik felt a weed of dislike for the elder Daae shoot up. Christine deserved to be cosseted and cherished; Erik would hold her to his heart and . . . a stiff breeze brought a wave of the fountain's fine mist over them. Luciana squealed, throwing up her shawl to protect her hair and Christine giggled, swiping the dew from her face. Erik produced a handkerchief for both of them.

"Thank you, Erik. You always know what I need," Luciana said sweetly.

"Thank you," Christine echoed. Both ladies blotted their impromptu shower from their skin. Erik watched transfixed as a singular drop of water pearled at the base of Christine's throat. He stifled to urge to kneel on the phaeton's bed and lick the drop from her skin.

"You were saying," he rasped, striving for an even tone, "about your father's stories?" Christine returned his handkerchief with a glance at Luciana, who still toyed with hers, weaving it between her fingers. Erik tucked the handkerchief into his vest pocket.

"Yes. Afterwards, Papa would always play his violin to help me sleep. He said the Angel of Music would be there to sing to me in my dreams." A sharp thrill raced through him, a deep and potent longing. He had been an angel of doom in Persia, he could be Angel to Christine. In another time, another place he could have been that for her. He would twist himself into whatever shape she desired.

"I do not recall any Angel of Music in Norse mythology," Erik said.

"Can we move on? I'd like to show Christine the obelisk," Luciana said, fanning herself with a languid hand. 

Turning to Christine, she said through Jean-Pierre, "Erik and Papa are always squinting at it, stroking the carvings and muttering to themselves." Erik watched Christine's face as she listened, a moment's puzzlement erased by a sunny smile. It dissolved the acidic irritation he felt at the interruption.

"I'd like that. Let's go, then," she said.

The evening passed thusly and the three of them developed a pleasant—if slightly uneasy—rapport. Erik was delighted to find that Christine had an open and inquisitive mind, asking intelligent questions and displaying genuine interest in the answer. Although, predictably, when the attention wandered too far astray from her, Luciana was quick to assert her opinion. For example, the opera houses in Rome were certainly finer than Paris's the Populaire, or had Christine really never sampled gelato?

The tour concluded in a café where each of them ordered a cup of gelato and found a table outside. Erik's was flavored by coffee, Luciana's strawberry, and Christine's mint. The look of surprised pleasure at her first bite would be forever etched into Erik's memory. He gulped the remainder of his dessert, not even tasting it.

"I've had flavored ices before, but never anything so creamy, so sweet. It's wonderful!" Christine said, making a small, happy sound whenever she took a bite. Luciana's laugh was sharp.

"I'm so glad you like it!" she said.

Erik pretended rapt interest in the movements of the flock of pigeons fleeing the toll of the evening bells, humid heat radiating from the walls of sun-warmed brick around them. If he kissed Christine, would he taste the tang of mint on her tongue? She would taste so sweet—God, being near her was an exercise in self-torture.

Upon reentering the phaeton, Luciana sat precisely in the middle of the bench. Erik's jaw clenched. His patience had frayed, both with Luciana's truculence, and the constant yammering assault of his lust. Over ten years of tranquil peace, of an almost monastic rhythm to his life alongside Giovanni, and then she came with her sweet smile and gentle soul, her angel's voice and her sylph's body and ruined it. The embodiment of temptation.  
The phaeton had barely stopped in the courtyard before Erik swung over the rail in one smooth movement. He knew the words to say: of polite but distant pleasure at their shared evening, a mannerly wish for their good rest and begging for their pardon at his departure. His mother had been quite strict in matters of etiquette, after all. But Erik craved—needed darkness, quiet, and, more importantly, distance. Erik's eye wandered over the fountain, the familiar square house covered with clinging ivy, intensely aware of their stunned and wary regard. It was a hot itch between his shoulder blades, not unlike his mother's auger-like stares. Why was he thinking of that evil woman?

"I will bring a tonic for your father, Mademoiselle," he said first, in French. Then, in Italian, "And Luciana, please remind your father to take his dose with supper. You know how it nauseates him. Goodnight, ladies." He did not wait for their reply.

XXX

Luciana sank back on the phaeton's bench with a huff, pulling a nasty face at Erik's turned back. Christine watched his retreating figure, more puzzled than irritated. What had soured his mood? Perhaps the sweet had not agreed with him? More than once, his sharply green eyes had settled on her and Christine had felt flushed and bashful, painfully aware of her plainness, her abbreviated education. Erik could speak so eloquently and intelligently on any topic under the sun. It made conversing with him more than intimidating. That and his pulsating force of presence. He commanded attention simply by being.

"His moods are . . . unpredictable," she remarked. Jean-Pierre interpreted and Luciana snorted, rising with a flutter of plum-hued skirts. She accepted Francesco's hand down and Christine hastened after her. Luciana muttered something as she marched toward the house and Christine, uncomprehending, looked to Jean-Pierre. The young man flushed and reluctantly translated: "She says: He's an old grump is what he is. Blind and proud and a fool." Perhaps that was true, after all Luciana had known Erik for many years. But there was something in his manner, when they spoke so easily of stories and myths, a quiet eagerness, a hushed pleasure in a shared interest. He seems lonely, she thought.

Luciana swiveled, beautiful face half lit by the flickering lanterns casting little orbs of light on the rippled face of the fountain.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked, hands braced on her hips.

"Yes. Yes, I'm coming."

Supper had already ended, but Signora Donati warmed leftovers for them. Christine gobbled the sandwich of warm, crusty bread spread thick with cheese and grilled vegetables.

"You enjoyed seeing Rome, Miss?" the Signora asked with an expansive sort of pride—Luciana acting as the reluctant interpreter after Jean-Pierre took his leave.

"I did, Signora. So sweeping and beautiful. Erik was a fine guide," she said. At the mention of his name, the housekeeper tutted, hands sweeping in a dismissive gesture.

"Tch, that man. I don't know why the Signore puts up with him. He's such an abrasive fellow. Hard to trust a man who covers his face." Christine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The older woman sounded just like Papa. It seemed so petty and narrow-minded to dismiss one of Erik's talents solely because of his mask. Christine buried the burning ember of curiosity that wondered what lay beneath it. Christine thanked the Signora and Luciana before retiring.

Papa's snores greeted her as she slipped inside and completed her evening ablutions. A small green bottle sat empty beside the ewer. Remembering the Parisian doctor's horrid tonics, she gingerly sniffed at the vial. There was a pleasant scent of something densely herbal, with a faint stinging tang of alcohol. In a wedge of moonlight, she watched Papa's chest rise and fall, stunned by the easy, even flow. At times his rasping breathing acutely pained her. But he sounded better now, thanks to Erik. She settled on her pallet, and made a mental note to seek him out and thank him for his kindness. Despite what the others said, Christine thought that he was neither a fool nor a crook nor a madman.

In fact, she had the sneaking suspicion he was a good man.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adorkable flirting

Chapter 6

“Sir, I would like your opinion on a personal matter," Erik said. The morning dawned cool and slow, just the barest streak of brilliant gold on the horizon, startling against the sky's more muted pallet of grey swirling cloud and sullen blue. He and Giovanni sat in the rooftop garden, wrapped in a fresh southern breeze and silence. Erik relished the selfish moment of Giovanni's undivided attention. His condition was always best in the cool morning hours, as well, after Erik's tonics had bought him a few precious hours of sleep. Erik's own rest had been fitful. Christine was his own monster, his beautiful demoness, scourging him with her beauty.  
In these rare dawn meetings, they spoke of architecture, art, politics, and religion. The lattermost topic was one Erik broached with delicacy, for his respect for Giovanni far outweighed his slender appreciation of deity. Their cups of coffee steamed gently between them and he paused to take a sip, more to occupy his hands than appease his thirst.

"Oh? How can I help you, Erik?" Giovanni asked, his tone warm and welcoming. A painful rush of affection surged through Erik. The elder man had ever been warm and welcoming, a gentle sun, a benevolent being kinder than the stone-eared god he worshipped.

"It concerns our guests," Erik said, meeting Giovanni's dark eyes. His nod encouraged Erik to continue.

"Signorina Daae would benefit from learning Italian, both in her associations here, and in helping her father translate when they continue abroad."

"I wholeheartedly agree. Poor Jean-Pierre cannot be asked to trail after the girls all winter. Shall I hire a tutor?" The last was said with a smirk and a raised brow, and Erik's fragile pleasant mood began to sour. He so hated it when Giovanni treated him as a boy.

"My question Sir, is would it be . . . untoward if I taught her myself?" Giovanni must have heard the thread of steel in his tone, for he sobered and took a long swallow of his coffee, contemplating his answer. Giovanni's broad fingers tapped a thoughtful tattoo on the table.

"I see no difficulty. I would perhaps broach the subject with Gustave and Christine herself beforehand." Erik exhaled through his nose, making a dismissive gesture.

"Of course, I planned on discussing the matter after breakfast. The more pressing concern is that of . . . propriety." A flicker of emotion darted across Giovanni's broad, expressive face, a tense furrow of his brow.

"Erik. I have never known you to utter so much as a word of impropriety, exempting perhaps whenever Luciana antagonizes you, and even then it is swiftly reconciled. What is your worry with Signorina Daae? Is it her, as you said, perfect voice?"

I lust after her, Erik thought sourly. That certainly counts as impropriety. Intensely uncomfortable, Erik rose to his feet.

"No. It is perhaps a needless fear then. I will make my request this morning." He began to take his leave, when Giovanni's hand closed around his wrist.

"I did not mean to offend you. Forgive an old man for making light of it." Tension ebbed from Erik's body.

"Of course, Sir," he said, weaving golden sunlight into his voice. "Thank you for your advice."

"Anytime, my boy."

XXX

"What is your reply, Mademoiselle? Would you like for me to teach you Italian?" he asked. Her reply was bottled in her throat, strangled by a rush of girlish shyness. Christine prayed the warm morning was enough to explain her heated cheeks.

"I wouldn't want to be a bother to you," she addressed the plate, containing the ravages of one of Signora Donati's sinfully wonderful baked treats.

"I would not have offered had I thought it a chore, Mademoiselle." A sharp sardonic edge lurked in the softly spoken words, like the prick of a hidden needle in a heap of crushed velvet. You would too, she thought, you would happily shovel manure if it was what Giovanni asked of you.

"I . . . I would have to talk to Papa . . ." she stuttered. She was intensely grateful Erik had chosen to talk to her after Luciana, Papa, and Giovanni had gone inside. 

She would certainly have been struck mute by their scrutiny.

"I've already spoken with him. He is amenable." The words were terse; Christine could see the tension evident in the broad line of his shoulders, the subtle tap of his first two fingers on the table. Out of piqued pride, she wished she could refuse. But she needed to learn, to help Papa, to talk to Luciana in their awkward, tentative friendship. Reminded of Erik's reaction, Christine made a stern promise to herself not to hum or sing as was her habit when her mind wandered.

"Very well," she said, gnawing on her lip. Christine twisted the napkin in her lap around her fingers. A gentle graze, just the barest tickle of a callus-roughened fingertip drew her chin up. Startled, she met his gaze. His green eyes were soft, his generous mouth softened by the slightest of smiles.

"If you have reservations, Mademoiselle, please name them. I would rectify them." God, that voice! Colors and textures, this one like . . . like her first taste of gelato. A cold sweet rush, startling and refreshing. Her heart was pounding.

"I will try my best, but . . . but Madame Giry found it quite the task to teach me passable French. She still laments my accent."

The smirk broadened into a true smile—the first she'd seen from him. Her breath caught, struck by how handsome he looked. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his former stern mien, though a certain glitter in his eyes remained. He pressed an elegant hand to his chest.

"As a Frenchman myself with an ear for languages, I find your French more than passable, Mademoiselle, no matter what the good Madame said," he said with a gracious incline of his head. She knew he was only being kind, but it comforted her regardless.

"Christine," she said. His left brow lowered over his eye. The mask deprived her of half his expression; it was only by the relaxed tilt of his mouth that she knew it to be puzzlement, not anger.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"I would prefer it if you called me by my Christian name." It was perhaps an unfair step towards the companionship she craved, but he had asked. Erik chose his words with particular care, but he had said her name before. She liked how her plain, simple name sounded with that voice, it sounded . . . exotic, almost pretty.

"Very well, then. Christine." Was there a special flavor to her name, or was she flattering herself?

"How would you like me to address you?" Could she bear it when he gazed at her as he did now, so vivid and watchful? His smiles were gone, leaving only his hot, green eyes and blank, stern mask.

"Erik will do, Christine. Shall we begin?"

XXX

 

"What?" Luciana leapt to her feet, urged by a hot, blinding anger. Papa glanced up from the schematic on his drafting table to arch a brow at her over his spectacles.

"Erik has offered to teach Christine Italian," he repeated, dark eyes steady on her. Luciana mastered herself with some effort, a sour taste welling in her mouth.

"Isn't Jean-Pierre enough, Papa?" she asked, mustering an innocent, trembling smile. Papa returned to his drafting table and Luciana glared at his hunched back.

"Oh my girl, we cannot keep the poor boy trailing after you two forever. It is better this way. In fact, if Gustave had less pride, he would let Erik tutor him as well." Luciana grasped on the words like a lifeline. That dull Swede would be her salvation.

"You're right, Papa," she breathed, smoothing her skirts, "I'll just go see about coffee, yes?"

"Very good, my dear," Papa's voice as distracted, his focus on the schematic Erik had left for him.

Luciana found Christine's father seated in the parlor swallowed in a pool of sunlight, his violin case open at his feet and the bow braced between his knees. As she watched, he deftly snipped the black band of fibers strung across the wooden frame. Momentarily distracted from her quest, Luciana blurted: "What are you doing?" That phrase, he understood, for he looked up from his work and gifted her with a soft smile. He was less plain when he smiled, she thought, he had good white teeth, unlike Papa's crooked, tobacco-stained ones.

"Good morning, miss," he said, "I is working on violin. I need new bow, fresh strings." His choppy Italian was jarring, and Luciana swiped a hand to physically dismiss his words.

"Christine is learning Italian? With Erik?" Irritated, Luciana chose simple words, as if speaking to a particularly dull child. Of course Erik should teach this poor sot!   
The core of her sour ache was the thought of his green eyes soft on her, of her stupid, doe-eyed affection segueing into clumsy flirtation.

"Yes. Erik talked with me before breakfast."

"But isn't that improper? Shouldn't you be there to, you know, chaperone?" His uneasy smile gave away his incomprehension and Luciana wanted to scream. 

Summoning a sweet smile, she turned on her heel and searched for the cursed translator. Luciana grasped Jean-Pierre by a handful of his waistcoat and dragged him from where he broke his morning fast mooning over one of the servant girls.

"Translate!" Luciana barked, and repeated her concern. Jean-Pierre glared at her, smoothing the wrinkles in his neat black waistcoat and interpreted her sentiments. Daae now looked puzzled. Jean-Pierre listened to his reply, then turned to Luciana.

"He says: Giovanni and Erik both offered to provide a chaperone if I was uncomfortable with the situation. I am not. It seems an innocent enough diversion." Luciana bit back her howl of frustration. She sought another tack.

"Then wouldn't it be better to have Erik teach you both? I'm sure you would like to perfect your knowledge." Signore Daae was not immune to flattery, if his gentle nod was any indication. A slight frown marred his brow.

"An astute observation, signorina. But would the Signore object to-"

"Of course not!" she interrupted Jean-Pierre's translation with flick of her wrist. Though she wasn't sure if he meant Erik or Papa, it really didn't matter. Crushing any tender seedling of affection between Erik and their guest was paramount. At Daae's startled glance, Luciana softened the bite of the words: "I mean, you are our guest. It is our duty to accommodate your wishes." Daae returned to his work, the dark horsehair curled over his knee like a spool of ribbon.

"Thank you for your suggestion. I will speak with Erik this evening." She wished she could protest, she wished she could yank the stupid man behind her as she had dragged Jean-Pierre, but this would have to do for now. Luciana made a mental note to send a letter to Michaela with the evening post. Another salon might be in order.

XXX

Christine needn't have fretted about her lessons, she found Erik to be a patient and attentive teacher. He had a true talent in distilling a subject to its essence, and encouraged questions.

"Language isn't simply memorizing a list of words or repeating the same phrases. Language is fluid and ever-evolving, and one must understand its mechanics before any lasting impression can be made," he said, and they began with simple sentences, structure and tense. Christine likened it to learning how to read music, the indecipherable squiggles melting into a cohesive work of art, and took to his teaching with a light and eager heart. A pleasant hour passed thusly, in quiet absorption in one of Giovanni's sunny parlors, a soft breeze teasing the edges of the paper where Christine transcribed her notes. Erik took his ease at her right, straight-backed in a low chair, fingers restlessly marking the measure of a piece of music. The clock chimed the ten o' clock hour.

"Alas, now I must leave you. I have lingered too long as it is; I am needed at the site." Christine squashed the shoot of selfishness that rose up within her; Erik's complete attention was a heady thing. Passion seeped into his every endeavor, and his instruction was no different. It didn't matter that it was the subject he enjoyed, or the fact that he was surely doing so as a favor to Giovanni to spare the expense of a translator, his passion aimed in Christine's direction still made her heart flutter.

"I understand, Erik. Thank you for your time. I will be sure to study every day." His expression softened and he gifted her with a slight smile.

"A teacher's greatest treasure is an apt and diligent pupil. I will see you this evening, Christine," he said with a bow.

Beneath the curtain of her hair she watched him take his leave, mesmerized by his elegance of movement. Dreamily, she rested her chin in her cupped palm and watched the wind tease the curtains. Perhaps next time, he'd brush her hand again as they organized their workspace. It sent such delightful tingles up her arm, a shivering awareness of the centimeter of flesh that met. Should she sit closer, toy with her hair? She had never learned to be coy and Luciana seemed reluctant to teach her, but how was she to hide this glowing feeling when he called her treasure?

"Christine?" She straightened in her seat at the sound of her father's voice, sweet daydreams vanishing.

"Here, Papa," she said, puzzled at his sudden appearance. After breakfast, he had mentioned it was time to tend his violin. It a point of pride and personal pleasure he took in re-hairing his bow, in cleaning and tuning his own instrument so it sang true. He was not to be rushed during such a time, and it often took a couple hours to complete his task to his satisfaction. Papa blotted his perspiring brow with his handkerchief, a half-sheepish smile quirking his lips.

"Has Monsieur Rousseau taken his leave already?" he asked, glancing around the room as if Erik could perhaps be hiding behind the curtain.

"Just now, Papa. Why?" Christine asked, biting back her exasperation. If he chastised her for these lessons, she'd surely scream!

"Luciana brought up a valid point. Perhaps I should join you in these lessons. We could learn together." Christine smiled thinly, torn between pained affection and selfishness. It was a rare man who could admit to his faults and seek to correct them, and for that she was supremely proud of her father.

"I'm sure Erik would teach us both. Let me show you what we went over today," Christine said, gesturing to Erik's vacated chair. On the other hand, with her father present, she certainly couldn't practice her flirting on her mysterious teacher.

XXX

 

It was for the best, Erik concluded, as Daae took his seat beside his daughter in Giovanni's parlor. It was for the best that Erik be denied the heady pleasure of private contact with his personal temptress, who proved to be a model pupil with a keen, eager mind. Minutes passed easily in her company, a true and simple accord of like-minded beings. The darkness curled around his soul whispered of a sweeter tutelage, one ripe with heavy sighs and wicked, stolen pleasure. The heat bled from such fantasies with her father seated beside her, frowning over the lenses of his glasses as he copied down notes.

Language did not come easily to Christine, though they had found a successful analogy in linking words and pronunciation to the notes and lyrics of music. Although not a perfect comparison, it helped lessen her anxiety in tackling the subject. Despite her difficulty, Erik far preferred her innocent ignorance to the elder Daae's years of mispronunciation and bad habits that was now Erik's to correct. It was for the best. Perhaps now he wouldn't slip deeper into his obsession with Giovanni's shy Swedish guest.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sweet angst

Chapter 7

 

In the summer's languid heat, a pattern emerged in Erik's days. The morning began with a shared breakfast with their Swedish guests, the conversation flowing in light, infrequent bursts. Christine, he noted—and he cherished any shard of insight into her soul, any inane trifle about her habits—did not relish the morning, often scowling at her plate before her first cup of tea. Coffee, an Italian staple, was not to her taste; she preferred tea. Earl Grey, the unhelpful corner of his mind supplied. Often when he woke from his heated, tormenting dreams, he thought he could taste the notes of bergamot oil or smell the faint whiff of violets and clean linen.

Erik would depart to the site and wage his daily war against ignorance and vanity under the hot Roman sun. Despite Calandrino and his ilk, work continued apace with the Valestro project, and Erik tentatively hoped to be finished by spring. Erik returned home with a deep, healthy ache to his muscles from his labors, the elusive ennui that had crept into his mind dissipating. Occasionally, Giovanni would plead their guests share their talents, and Erik endured these evenings with every ounce of steel his will possessed. The assault of her voice was no less potent with repetition, he found to his dismay. She was a mortal being, his temptress, he could hear it in an occasional imperfect note or misspoken phrase, but he cherished her more with each flaw. Much like the Japanese art of kintsugi, Erik gloried in her voice, made more exquisite for its fragility.

Daae's violin, a potent weapon of its own right, often followed Erik to his cellar room and urged him to his writing table. A font of inspiration poured in drops of black blood from the tip of his pen, a vehicle for his frustrations and an anchor for his sanity. The curiosities of science, the elegance of architecture's Euclidean forms lay forgotten at the siren's song of his first and greatest love: music. At the conclusion of their lessons, he, Daae, and Christine often debated at great length on the works of their favored composers. Daae enjoyed Beethoven's grandiose complexity, Christine favored Shumann's wistfulness and Mozart's playfulness, Erik acknowledged the merits of Wagner's innovations but lamented his political aspirations. Were it not for the undercurrent of soul-deep want that he felt in her presence, such pleasant diversion would have been a balm to Erik's unknowingly lonely being.

Erik's tutelage had found fertile soil in Christine; by the end of July, her Italian passed muster on the simplest of exchanges. Luciana, as expected, took advantage of her newfound proficiency. He watched from the window as Christine and Luciana boarded the phaeton. There was a faint line between Christine's brows as she concentrated fiercely on whatever drivel Luciana was saying. A surge of almost painful fondness overwhelmed him, tightening his grasp on the doorjamb, the old wood whining beneath his grip. His sweet temptress, innocent demoness, unknowing keeper of his bloody soul-

"Chatting away like a couple of magpies, aren't they?" Daae's voice interrupted Erik's musing. Christine's devotion to him did him credit, but as Erik knew better than anyone, a child could not choose loving a parent. It came without question and bloomed, stubborn roots taking hold even under withering abuse. 

Erik measured the man under intense scrutiny and had yet to find fault beyond simple selfishness. Was Christine's altruism of spirit borne in reaction to her sire's simple grasping? Erik tilted his head, eyeing Daae's face in profile. Loose and relaxed with the scent of Giovanni's fine wine on his breath, Daae watched his daughter drive off with a look of sincere pleasure. He was a good father, Erik concluded. Loving, but lacking Giovanni's penchant for indulgence.

"Indeed. The sheer volume of words boggles the mind. They spent several hours in Signorina Michaela's company just yesterday. What topic has captured their interest in these few intervening hours?" Erik said dryly. Daae chuckled.

"Knowing youth, the usual topics: diversion, eligible gentlemen, and the interfering nature of their parentages," he said, sipping his wine.   
Erik grunted in reply, casting a longing glance toward the stair to his cellar room. With their young charges abroad for the evening, Giovanni and Daae would no doubt seek his company, in the interest of masculine camaraderie. The evening, Erik found, was not as tedious as he feared. Daae regaled them with tales of his and Christine's gypsying across Europe.

"Sweden became much too painful after Emma died. I had a serviceable contract with a music hall near Stockholm, but . . ." the older man broke off, made maudlin by wine and good company.

"Emma had such a lovely voice. She would be so proud of Christine."

"I am sorry for your loss, Signore," Erik said in echo to Giovanni's offered sympathies. He was moved by the man's honest grief, even though a private traitorous thought whispered Daae had sacrificed a prosperous life to scrape across Europe with his little girl because his grief was too great to bear. It smacked of cowardice in Erik's mind. His sweet girl who even now longed for a quiet, secure existence surrounded by those she loved. Perhaps with a prosperous stonemason—no. Erik could not fantasize about such dangerous, beautiful things. She was a child, his guest, and utterly beyond his reach. Why, she would be gone in a year, trailing after her father on whatever ill-conceived venture he could dream up.

"Do you have any family, Monsieur Rousseau?" Daae asked. Erik's hand balled into a tight fist where it rested on his knee, the soft languor of wine sharpening with a hot jolt of pique. However innocently, Daae probed at deep and painful wounds. For Giovanni's sake, he tempered the scathing venom that flew to his lips.

"My life has been . . . difficult. I have no pleasant stories to share before I came to live here," he said quietly.

"An orphan, then?" Daae pressed, leaning forward in chair. The hazy look in his eye said the man was well into his cups. It shouldn't have enraged Erik so, such a small, harmless question said with something like compassion. It tasted like pity, and suddenly Erik was aflame with anger, a bone-deep resentment that had festered over decades.

"Gustave," Giovanni said, warningly. Too late, Erik surged to his feet, quivering.

"No, Monsieur. I was not an orphan; it would have been kinder had I been one. My mother raised me; she loathed me, because of my face. When I could stand the abuse no longer, I ran away. I have not seen or heard of her in twenty-five years."

"Excuse me, Sir," he bit the words out, half-blinded by the red haze of rage.

He burst from the house, embraced by the humid smothering blanket of a Roman evening. Yanking the knot of his cravat loose, he summoned a hansom cab. Erik needed intense physical effort to beat out the tattoo of this burning well of feeling, and the site was his alone at such an hour. Memory bubbled up, like a corpse borne to the surface of a lake filled with putrid gases. If you don't tell me what you want straightaway, you shall have nothing at all. Look at yourself in the mirror and see why you must wear a mask! I promise you, Erik, if I send you away to an asylum you will never come back—never! Her voice, lovely even when shrill and uttering the most hateful words imaginable, echoed in his ears, crystal clear even after almost three decades.

During the day's labor, Erik delegated splitting boulders from the quarry to the lower level workers and apprentices: administrative and artistic tasks were his now that he was master. Tonight, the heft of hammer and chisel in his hands felt right, empowering. The divots were already in place, waiting the hammer. He struck hard and sure, metal and stone ringing beneath his force. Sweat stung in his eyes. In the idyll, he had dared hope the blackness had leached from his soul, drawn from his wounds by Giovanni's kindness.

He was wrong.

XXX

 

Christine disembarked arm in arm with Luciana, grateful for the solid ground beneath her feet. Michaela and her inner circle had pilfered a bottle of champagne from her father's wine cellar and proceeded to pass around the bottle in a languid sort of camaraderie. Christine had never partaken of more than a sip. Once Luciana had pried this confession from her, Michaela and her friends sought to educate her, passing the bottle to her with greater and greater frequency. Their inclusion was heady for a heart as shy as hers, but much like the hot burn of alcohol beneath the pleasant fizz, there was a . . . sharper note to their fellowship; something vindictive behind under their smiles.

Christine swayed, clutching at Luciana's arm for support.

"Can't hold a drop of liquor, darling?" she purred, grinning like a Cheshire cat and giggling. Christine staggered toward the fountain, slumping to sit on the lip. 

She swallowed a couple times, a vain effort to quell the nausea lurching in her gut.

"Come on, Christine. We're already late as it is. Papa will be furious if he sees you out like a balcony." Christine blinked blearily at Luciana, hands braced on her hips, face flushed and lovely in the lamplight. She looked no worse for wear, and she had drunk at least as much as Christine.

"Out like a balcony?" she asked, everything feeling far-away, muted and puzzling. Her fingers trailed in the cool water.

"Drunk, stupid," Luciana explained sharply.

"I feel sick," Christine said piteously, resisting Luciana's urgent tug on her arm as her stomach lurched in warning. Christine bent over double and retched, some of it landing on Luciana's fine blue slippers. Luciana's shrill cry rang in Christine's head, a stream of invective so swift and vitriolic that Christine looked up at her with glazed eyes, uncomprehending.

Luciana stormed off, leaving Christine alone. The hot, acidic smell of her sick turned her stomach and she sat, resting her back against the edge of the fountain. Clumsily, she reached to bring a sloppy handful of water to her lips to rinse her mouth. She leaned her pounding head against the stone, still holding a faint savor of the sun's heat. It felt nice, combined with the music . . . water music. Taming of the waters, like the other fountain. Erik's voice, describing details. Erik . . . was here?

He disembarked from a cab, more disheveled than she'd ever seen him. Cravat, suit coat and waistcoat gone, linen shirt clinging to his torso in places. Where had he gone? He was in a foul temper; his long, brisk strides and thunderous mien were enough to tell her so. A barrel of rainwater stood at the mouth of the stair to the cellar, Erik stopped there with his back to her, removing his mask and briskly scooping water to wash his face. Christine watched in silence, oddly pleased by this almost voyeuristic glimpse of him. Vivid passion chained by layers of cool courtesy, that brilliant smile that made her heart flutter, those beautiful green eyes looking at her—she must have made a sound because Erik donned his mask and turned.

"Mademoiselle?" he said, frowning. Christine scowled at him. With Papa at their lessons, Erik had reverted to his habitual respectful form of address. She wanted her name on his lips. She made a derisive noise in her throat.

"I thought I told you to call me by my Christy—Chris . . . my first name," she said, her words smushing together as she pointed a limp finger in his direction.

"Are you . . . well, Christine?" he asked, closing the distance between them. He cut a fine figure, lean and fluidly graceful, like a large cat.

"Careful!" she blurted, pointing to her emesis, "I got sick."

"You're ill?" he asked, kneeling beside her. The graze of his warm, work-roughened hands on her forehead was too light, ticklish. Oh, he smelled strongly of sweat and musk, a very masculine smell. Mmm, she wanted to nuzzle that spot at the base of his neck. Such a lovely neck, why did he cover it with strangling cambric and lace? She swayed toward him, wearing a wide, silly smile. Lovely eyes too, such a strong, bright green.

"Have you been drinking?" he asked sharply. Her drowsy well-being ebbed, and she blinked owlishly at him.

"A little," she said in a small voice.

Silence.

"It's just the other ladies were enjoying themselves and I didn't want to be rude and after a while, I started to like the taste . . ." The words tumbling from her lips quite against her better judgment, bunching and stretching like an accordion before trailing off in mortified silence. Something seemed to gather and settle around him, a coiled tension, a deep, powerful rush of emotion.

"I see. And where was your hostess?" he growled and Christine shrank away from the threat of his displeasure. The dreamy sense of well-being was far away now, leaving only a lurching stomach and the beginnings of a headache throbbing at her temples.

"It wasn't her fault. She was trying to help me inside, and I was sick on her shoes."

"She and her twittering friends bullied you into imbibing alcohol to gain their acceptance, then she left you in serious need of attention, and you are defending her." It sounded like an accusation. Passion, Christine had forgotten, could be distilled into rage, bitterness, and hate. And she tasted them all in Erik's choked undertone. Words slipped through her fingers, her mind too fuzzy to muster a defense.

"Can you stand?" he asked. He didn't wait for her reply; instead he simply scooped her up. Christine draped her arms around his chest, clutching handfuls of his shirt for support.

"Really Erik, I'm fine-" she protested.

"You need care, and you are in no position to care for yourself. Allow me to assist you, Christine," he said sharply. She could muster no words of protest.

God, he was strong, solid as a rock as he carried her down the stair to his cellar room. Christine rested her pounding head against his shoulder, discreetly nuzzling that tantalizing spot at the base of his throat and hoping he didn't notice.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked in a small voice. Erik set her on her feet in the shadowy landing, only the gleam of his white mask visible in the gloom.

"I have medicine. It will help with the headache," he said, all the anger leached from his tone.

"Oh," she replied. She waited, swaying a little against the doorjamb as Erik ducked into his room. He emerged carrying a small blue vial and a cup in one hand, and a lit candle in the other. Light and shadow warred for supremacy on his features. In this light, he looked ancient and unknowable. Her mouth was suddenly dry, palms moist with perspiration.

"Drink this," he said, offering the vial and cup.

"What is it?" she asked. Erik's severe expression softened minutely.

"An infusion of willow bark. Its chemical properties have an analgesic effect."

"Excuse me?"

"A painkiller, Christine. Drink, please." Christine obeyed without further demur. The contents of the vial made her queasy stomach lurch in warning, so she chased it with hasty gulp of water. A tiny smile quirked his lips.

"Very good. Be sure to drink plenty of water before you sleep; eat only dry toast in the morning. Should you become ill again, come and see me. Do you require assistance upstairs?" he asked coolly, as if he were her doctor, or an elderly uncle. His moods and passions confused her.

"No, I'm fine," she said, draining the cup and handing both cup and empty vial back. Anxiety clutched her belly, she wrung her hands fretfully.

"You won't tell Papa or Monsieur Marchesi, will you Erik?" she whispered. His ink-dark brow arched in an expression of supreme doubt.

"You want this to remain in confidence? Why would you bother to protect Luciana from a just punishment?" Again, that nasty sharpness in his voice. Christine's gaze dropped to her shoes, scuffed and worn.

"She's my friend, she didn't mean any harm," Christine said. Silence stretched between them again and Christine darted a glance at his face. Disgust was carved into his face, his posture rigid and unyielding.

"Indeed. Your choice of friendships is your own, of course. I bid you goodnight."

Christine bit her lip, biting back a childish rush of hurt. She mustered her dignity and said, "Goodnight, Monsieur."

Papa's snores were almost soothing as she staggered to her pallet. Abrupt, courteous, thoughtful and scathing by turns, Erik's behavior baffled her. Giovanni adored him and Luciana . . . Christine heaved a sigh, dismissing the onerous thoughts for a time when her head wasn't pounding. Christine had glimpsed his darker passions, the rage he held beneath his iron control, and it frightened her. Was he a good man? Maybe, but never a simple one.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Christine woke to no serious ill effects to her night of poor judgment, save for a mossy taste in her mouth and the faint warning throb of a headache. She cracked open one eye and found the blank darkness of the wee hours of night. As bottomless as her sleep had been, it felt as if she’d slept days away instead of only a couple hours. Kicking off the blanket, she rose and staggered to the ewer. The water felt blissful on her flushed face, droplets dampening the hair at her temples and running down her neck. Behind her, Papa snored in blissful repose. 

Christine rinsed her mouth and heaved a sigh, looking into her own bleary eyes in the mirror. Faces had leered and voices garbled in her dreams, Luciana’s, her friends, and Erik’s. Beyond that, once freed from the soporific and inebriating effects of the champagne, anxiety churned. How could she face Luciana, after her embarrassment? God, would the older girl even speak to her now? And Erik? He’d been so wonderfully present in caring for her. That care soured so quickly at her plea for discretion. Christine buried her face in her hands. Sleep was now beyond her, with this prickly energy settling in her stomach. She eased out of their room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. 

The tiles were deliciously cool on her bare feet, the hall looked mysterious and foreign with squares of white moonlight blurring edges and leeching away color. A chord of music bled through the window, soft and melancholy. Like a child following the proverbial piper, Christine made her way toward it. Christine had passed the old spinet under the portico a hundred times, and brushed the yellowed ivory of its keys. Papa had no skill with the spinet or piano, but he told wonderful stories of Christine’s mother and how beautifully she played. It was a shred of knowledge, but one she cherished nonetheless. 

Now Erik hunched on its narrow bench, his long fingers crawling over the keys with liquid grace. Christine hugged the portico’s pillar, rough stone radiating the sun’s heat against her cheek. Music washed over her, at times soft and tender as a baby’s lullaby then twisting and folding back on itself, building into something powerfully moving. The notes pleaded, begged, and Christine felt tears prick her eyes at the poignancy of their entreaty. The milky light of the moon made him seem flat and distant, like a figure in a painting. He finished with a throbbing low note fading to silence.

“You should be abed, mademoiselle,” Erik said. His rich voice echoed the music, she thought, soft and almost pleading. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, chewing on her lower lip. Should she approach? She couldn’t stifle the half-terrified yearning to speak to him, or forget the faint sting of his reproach. If she had her way, she’d satisfy both before she sought her bed again.

“I trust you’re feeling better,” he said, head still bent over the keys. Plucking up her courage, Christine risked three steps toward him, close enough to almost be within arm’s reach. 

“I am, thank you. Are . . . how are you?” Heat prickled her cheeks at the inanity. Erik swiveled, his green eye set in the mask’s socket of alabaster. The faintest curl of his mouth softened such a forbidding mien, and Christine’s heart hammered at the sight. His expression melted into one of melancholy and his words emerged soft and sad, like tattered silk.

“Forgive my boorishness earlier, mademoiselle. I . . . I was reminded of something very painful this evening.” His gaze drifting up to ivy crawling up the wall of the house, idly swaying in the wind. Christine bit down on her surprise, baffled yet delighted that he would confide in her.

“N—No apology is necessary. What . . . what was painful? It might--” she broke off and swallowed, trying to muster enough saliva to produce speech, “it might help to talk about it.”

All of his distant sadness dissipated and his attention was fixated on her. Dizzying and terrifying in equal measure. The air seemed to gather around him as he straightened his posture, a cool breeze running its fingers through his hair. Christine marshalled composure; he was as skittish as a half-tame animal. Any misspoken word would send him bounding away from her. 

“Perhaps you are right; I breathe life into her by clinging to her words. My mother is the source of my distress.” Should she touch him? Pain radiated from every line of him. No, comfort too, would send him away. 

“Go on,” she said, sitting beside him on the spinet’s bench. Erik gave a brisk nod, as if accepting orders. Again he was far from her, lost in decades-old memories. 

“She despised me, you see. I was not what she envisioned in a son. My first covering in this world was a mask,” he said, fingers trailing over the white leather, as if to assure himself it was still there. It took every ounce of Christine’s will to remain composed as sorrow struck her heart. The image of Erik’s strong, lonely figure doubled and tripled as tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away.

“And your father?” she asked. The words flew before she could stop them. They might jar him from his reverie, but she needed to know if there had been a shred of love in his past. After all, Christine hadn’t had a mother, but a papa who cherished her. Something stirred in his manner, a coiling like a predator before the fatal strike. Anger, surely. To her bewilderment, he laughed, a harsh ugly sound. 

“To hear my mother speak, he sat at Satan’s right hand and I his spawn. In reality he was just a man, albeit a cruel and weak one,” he said. Christine dashed the tears from her eyes under the thin guise of smoothing her hair. What in God’s name could she say? Instead of answering her riddles, he offered more, along with a dose of mingled sympathy and horror. 

“Is she still living?” she asked. He gave a tight shrug.

“I don’t know. I ran away when I was eleven and haven’t returned to France since. I will stay as long as Giovanni deems me useful.” A blind man could see how Giovanni delighted in Erik and loved him as a son. It spoke deeply of Erik’s own loss that he thought his home here tenuous. 

The depth of pain yawned between them, and it frankly frightened her that life could be so cruel, but Christine felt so close to him. Had he even spoken these words aloud before he said them to her? She felt honored by his trust and moved, shattered by his pain. That, and perhaps the lingering liquid courage of the champagne explained her leaning toward him as her heart ached to, and placing a feather-light kiss on his cheek. Tingles shot through her at the contact of her lips to his warm, stubbled cheek. He stiffened, hands clenched on the lip of the spinet and green eyes blazing into hers, afire with an emotion she couldn’t name.   
Now paralyzed by shyness and mortified by her presumption, her words tangled and wadded together, lapsing into Swedish.

“I . . . I . . . forgive me. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m so sorry, Erik. Th—Thank you for telling me. I hope it made the pain easier to bear.” She all but ran back to her room, feeling as if she’d survived some great trial miraculously unscathed. Her fingers brushed her still-tingling lips. It had been worth it.

XXX

 

Perhaps there had been catharsis in purging his mother’s ghost from his soul, for Erik woke the next morning from the most blissful sleep of his life. A deep sleep awash with dreams of his Christine, an angel who offered succor with her gentleness and tempted him fiercely with her innocent kiss. His lust unfurled at the brief touch, even as his heart broke. Erik fixed the mask in place, feeling almost cheerful as he scaled the stair to greet the brilliance of the morning.

“But Papa, I didn’t--” the first strident note of Luciana soured his mood.

“Enough Luciana! A night of revelry is one thing, but the Daaes are our guests. What sickens me more is that had Michaela’s father not approached me at Mass, I would have had no idea! You should know better.” Giovanni’s voice remained full-bodied despite his illness. His rebuke also went miles toward assuaging Erik’s pique on Christine’s behalf. 

The two faced off like a pair of boxers beside Neptune’s fountain, their shared blood evident in the pugnacious thrust of chin. So caught up in their dispute, neither noticed Erik slink beyond them to Giovanni’s office upstairs. It was Marchesi business after all, and there was work to be done. The Valestro blueprint was in a neat roll on Giovanni’s desk, illuminated by a sliver of golden light peeking through the shutter. The ribbon of light also shone on the vase with its wilted rose and an idea struck him. It took in scant moments to compose his gift, and less effort to smuggle it into the room where Christine and her father slept. His heart broke anew at the sight of her through the window, a lovely drooling angel. 

His step was light as he made his way to the site. Even Calandrino’s incompetence could not mar his mood, not today. The men seemed to sense his levity and work progressed smoothly through the dense heat of the morning. At siesta time, Erik eagerly sought a cab home. A small voice inside scoffed at his boyish eagerness, wondering if she’d found his gift, if she liked it. If he consumed her thoughts as she did his. Fatuous fool, he thought. 

An empty courtyard greeted him, colorless ribbons of heat rising from sunbaked cobbles. A prickle of unease ran up the back of his neck. Giovanni? Erik strode quickly inside, pausing only to swipe the sweat from his eyes. Surely they would have sent word if he . . . if he--

“Sir? Luciana?” he said, finding the parlor deserted.

The unease deepened into something like fear and he scaled the steps three at a time to Giovanni’s room. He paused on the landing to compose himself, lest the older man was seeking precious rest. Erik nudged the cracked door open a sliver wider, finding Giovanni asleep. Relief urged him to expel a gusting breath and he shook his head. His fear had been baseless, the impulsive panic of a boy. Reassured by the even flow of his breathing, Erik eased back. The house was simply abed for their midday rest. Erik bit back the faint sting of disappointment, he would see her tonight. God, how had she become so vital to his existence? When she leaves with her father, she would tear his heart out by the roots. 

Sobered by the thought, Erik poured a cool glass of water from the carafe and sought the rooftop garden. It was a hard, sweet jolt then, when he found her slender form among the potted plants. 

“Mademoiselle?” he said. Christine swung around, hand splayed at the base of her throat. Assaulted anew with her glory, he admired the way the wind toyed with her hair and those lovely brown eyes wide and focused solely on him. 

“Erik, you startled me!” A quick glance verified she had found his rose bound by a black ribbon and inwardly his heart crowed.

“Forgive me,” he said, suddenly sharply aware of his disheveled state. Silence fell between them. It seemed arrogant to ask her opinion on his gift and inappropriate to ask about their shared kiss. Stymied, he sought more banal topics. 

“Is Monsieur Daae resting?” Her hand fluttered in a vague dismissive gesture, one finger restlessly caressing the outer petals of the rose. He tried, and failed, not to be jealous of those petals, so lovingly caressed by those pale fingers.

“Oh yes. That tonic you gave him works wonderfully. Th—thank you. For the tonic. And the rose, of course. And . . .” she trailed off and gave a pained smile. 

“Thank you.” 

“You are most welcome, mademoiselle,” he said, bowing. His angel, so sweetly shy. Again, silence filled the space between them but it was far from uncomfortable. He had only ever felt this ease with Giovanni. 

“How is your work at the site?” she asked, smoothing her skirts as she sat on the stone bench. He dared approach, leaning against the wrought iron railing, blisteringly hot through his shirt.

“Very well, I daresay. At this rate, we will complete the project on time.” A faint frown puckered her brow, one hand shoving her hair behind her ears.

“Is the work so very difficult?” she asked. Erik answered with a grim smile.

“Stupidity is without cure, mademoiselle,” he said. She laughed and an answering joy bloomed in his heart at the sound.

“I would like to see your work . . . someday.” Oh yes, he thought, anything to see her smile again.

“It will be autumn soon and the weather too unpredictable to work. Perhaps I can arrange a tour then. I am sure Giovanni will wish to observe the site.”

“I would like that. I don’t know how much longer we will stay,” she said, addressing the toes of her shabby shoes. Her words were the jab of a needle. She was leaving. If not before winter, then surely soon after. Her father’s wanderlust would drive them away and what would he be left with? God, what delusion had he slipped into? He could not entertain the sweet notion of having her at his side, or even nearby. Pain soured the heady lightness she created in him. 

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat and straightening, “Well, I shall speak to Giovanni to arrange it. I am sure any one of the foremen would delight in having a guest.” Her face was a pane of glass—every emotion appeared there—and he saw bewilderment followed swiftly by dismay.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” The words were short, pained. He must prove immune to her pain, it was only way he’d be safe. She had already burrowed so deep in his soul. 

“I really must return. Good day, mademoiselle,” he said stiffly. He turned toward the stair, not waiting for her reply. 

XXX

 

Something was different, she could tell. Papa had been furious, banishing her to her room until supper. As if it was her fault that the Swedish twit couldn’t hold her liquor! Her mouth twisted in disgust at the thought of her ruined slippers. Disgusting. Her already boring existence had become even more unbearable, after Papa had forbade her from joining Michaela and her friends. Luciana was to be a prisoner in this house with only a little idiot for her company. But as she took her seat at the dinner table—even at his angriest Papa would not see her starve—she could tell something was different. 

After exchanging cool greetings, Daae and Papa were obliviously chatting over inanities. But between the twit and Erik, something was different. Christine caught her gaze, anxiety and hope mingled in her cow eyes. Let her sweat it out, Luciana thought, shifting her body away. She deserved it.

Luciana glanced sidelong at Erik, startled to find his green eyes boring into hers, ablaze with anger. God, what had the twit done to sink her claws so deep in him? Usually Papa’s discipline would mollify him. Of course he blamed Luciana. She stared mutinously right back at him, jaw set against the frustrated tears threatening to rise. 

“Good evening, Luciana. How are you feeling this evening? I hear you and Christine enjoyed quite the revel last night,” he said in a low undertone. Each word felt barbed, like a thorn. Luciana glared daggers at him, inwardly howling in frustration. Why was it that she was so torn between extreme hate and love for this fool man?

“Fine, thank you,” she said coolly. 

Erik’s scowl deepened, every line of his body quivering with tension. It was a wonder he didn’t snap like a piano wire. Signora Donati interrupted by serving the bruschetta. A tense minute passed as the three of them made a show of portioning morsels on their plates. A quick glance at the Swedish cow found her slouching in her chair, restlessly twisting that ugly tarnished ring around her littlest finger. Luciana fought the smile curling her lips and took a tidy bite, enjoying the crisp bread and vibrant tomatoes drenched in olive oil. 

“You will never behave like that again, Luciana,” Erik said, his own food untouched.

“What do you care? We were having fun. Ask her!” she said, gesturing to Christine with a curt thrust of her chin. A muscle fired in his jaw, his left hand clenching the arm of the chair. God, did he really consider striking her over the twit?

“Oh I’m sure you enjoyed yourself greatly. Christine paid dearly for your fun. You will never do it again, or so help me--”

“Or what?” Luciana said, her voice rising to a near-screech. All eyes swiveled to her, blurring as angry tears flooded her.

“Luciana.” Papa’s voice was stern. His betrayal was the final injustice. She threw down her napkin and leapt to her feet.

“It’s not fair! Christine is just as much at fault as me! Just because she was puling like a sick cow doesn’t mean she didn’t want to! Everyone is treating her like a perfect princess when she’s not!” The table erupted in a tangle of male voices.

“Luciana, you will not speak about our guest--”

“Christine, is that true?” 

“Shut your viperous mouth, woman!”

“It’s true.” Christine’s soft words cut through the noise. Luciana swiveled toward Christine. She would dare admit it now?

“What?” Papa and Daae said in unison. She seemed to wilt under their concentrated attention, dark eyes skittering from face to face.

“It was fun for a while and . . . and I didn't want to be rude. I’m sorry.” Luciana bit back a groan. Her sincerity was nauseating. Papa’s frown softened. 

“There is no harm in enjoying a gathering, but it is your hostess’s responsibility to ensure you do not overindulge,” Papa said.

“Especially on your first time,” Daae echoed, the blockhead. So those bloody ingrates solely blamed her? Madness!

“It won’t happen again,” Christine promised. Oh, if she thought speaking up would earn her way back onto Luciana’s good graces, she could think again! 

“No. You and Luciana will not socialize again until I see fit. Luciana returns to school in a month’s time. We will enjoy our time together until then. Now, let us return to our meal in peace.”

Luciana sat down with a flounce of skirt in mutinous silence. Enjoy their time, hmm? We would see about that.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 

 

August in the Marchesi household ended in an uneasy, stifling stalemate between Christine and her hostess. The bloody heat didn’t help. Papa and Giovanni withered under the embrace of choking humidity, their lungs rattling despite Erik’s tonics. And when Christine and Luciana did speak, she heard that uncomfortable sharpness in the other girl’s tone, the spite in her gaze. Erik, for his part, was caught between the dual obligations of the nearly-finished project and his duties as translator, teacher, physician and host, which did little to improve his mood. Altogether they made a miserable picture.

While she knew there was some truth to Christine’s fault from that horrid party, in her own mind she thought perhaps Luciana had urged her to drink more on purpose. _At least Erik agreed with me,_ Christine thought with a grim sort of pleasure. The near-choking tension between Erik and Luciana baffled her. Erik had lived in this house for years, and the two of them squabbled constantly. Tonight at dinner, they hadn’t even glanced at each other. Uncomfortable with confrontation as she was, Christine guiltily longed for the day Luciana would return to her convent school. One fact was unavoidable: Christine knew she had failed. God knew how long Giovanni would tolerate one who so irked his precious daughter.

The rooftop garden offered cool solace.

“Are you up here, _älskling_?” her father’s voice was thin, tired.

“I’m here, Papa,” she said, swiping the hot tears that had leaked from her eyes. His stooped form appeared from behind the potted plants. God, when had he become so thin? Despite the rich Italian fare, his shirts lay limp across broad shoulders. He eased onto the hot stone bench next to her, winded from the climb, and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to dab the perspiration from his face.

“When are we to leave?” she said, unable to bear a moment more of his silence. The white linen of this handkerchief hovering over his mouth, she could only see his raised eyebrows.

“What nonsense are you saying?” he asked.

“Giovanni wants us to leave, doesn’t he?” she said. Papa’s eyebrows rose to his hairline.

“Leave? He hasn’t said a word of such a thing. You mustn’t worry, Christine,” Papa said, laying is callused palm over her hand. Christine took solace in the comforting touch, even as a dew of sweat sprang up between their hands.

“But Luciana has treated me so coldly, surely Giovanni wouldn’t allow--” Christine’s words were cut off by a coughing fit, a deep hacking cough rattling within his barrel chest. She twisted her hand from beneath Papa’s, squeezing his thick, spongy fingertips in mute reassurance. He fumbled for his handkerchief and amongst the thick globule of phlegm she saw flecks of red blood. His frailty was, as always, a knife to her heart.

“Oh Papa,” she said, “has your cough worsened? Perhaps Erik--”

“No, no,” Papa said, sucking in a deep breath, hand fluttering in a weak dismissive gesture.

“The tonics are of no use, _älskling_. I’d rather not drink anymore foul brews when it does nothing to ease the cough,” he said.

“You said they worked!” Christine said, lapsing into Swedish, her tone caught somewhere between accusing and terrified. Papa’s smile was a wan one.

“They did, until a week past. With this heat it has been no better. I’ll be all right, darling. I just need rest,” he said in the same tongue.

“Let me help you,” she said, drawing his arm across her shoulders. The stairs proved difficult, too narrow to allow them to walk abreast. Christine was left to awkwardly hobble after him, hands cupped beneath his armpits. Within Giovanni’s house, their room was stifling. Breath seemed to catch in her throat, sweat trickling in ticklish trails down the back of her neck. Dying sunlight poured in from the window, dust motes dancing in the beams.

“God, this heat will be the death of me,” Papa said, in a weak attempt at humor. Christine bit back a sharp word. How could he even hint at such a thing? An emptiness settled in her belly at the thought.

“Lie down,” she said, shoving her hair off her forehead.

Christine bustled about the room, cracking open the window to allow in any fugitive breeze, drawing the curtains to block most of the light, filling the basin with cool water. She settled on the edge of the pallet beside Papa, mopping his face with a dampened cloth. Papa uttered a half-pained groan of contentment. Even after the brief exertion of returning to the room, his breath came in harsh pants. He grasped her wrist, dark eyes suddenly imploring.

“You’re happy though, Christine? I’ve been a good father to you, right?” he asked. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

“Of course, Papa. I love you,” she said, voice thick with emotion, “but you don’t need to worry about such things. You’ll be just fine.” They were words as much for herself as for him. He had to be.

“Rest now, Papa. I’ll wake you before supper,” she said, kissing his sweat-damp forehead.

“I love you, Christine,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“I love you too, Papa. Sleep. You’ll feel better,” she said. Christine slipped out of the room and leaned against the closed door, letting the tears fall.

 

XXX

 

Erik heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped off the brougham. The heat had slackened as the sun set and ended the work week; and—at last! —there was progress at the site. In fact, the project was nearly completed; he’d dismissed all but two of the senior carvers. It would be a relief sweeter than any cool night that he would not have to deal with Calandrino and his minions. At Giovanni’s home, he had yet to see any evidence of armistice between Luciana and Christine. Thank God the summer term was at its end. The selfish part of his mind reminded him that he would then have Christine all to himself. He completed his ablutions with pleasure, and scaled the stair to Giovanni’s study to share the good news.

“Sir?” he said, knocking lightly. Giovanni looked up from the ledger and his weathered face broke into a smile. The expression never failed to light a warm feeling in Erik’s chest.

“Yes, come in Erik. Come rescue me from blurred lines of figures,” he said, scratching a quick note in margin as Erik took his seat.

“The majority of work on the Valestro project is complete, Sir. All that’s left is a few auxiliary carvings. I left Alex and Oscar Esposito to finish the balustrade along the balcony.”

“Excellent. I’m sure Signore Valestro will be very pleased we finished ahead of schedule,” Giovanni said.

“Hmph. By some grace, certainly,” Erik said, rising from his chair.

The stimulation of thorny problems always left him jittery. He poured wine for the two of them and paced the length of the room. By tacit agreement, they avoided talking about Luciana and her flights of fancy. Pretending interest in the mundane river scene on Giovanni’s wall, he said, “Our guests have mentioned a desire to see the site. Perhaps now that it is complete, we might arrange a tour.”

“Of course.” There was a certain dryness in his tone that made Erik turn. Giovanni’s lips curled in a sly smile.

“What is it?” Erik said, more sharply than he intended.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed your sudden interest in hospitality. Or the roses missing from the garden. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were smitten.”

Words flew to his lips, sharp, dismissive words. Inwardly, Erik bristled. But a secret part of himself longed to confide in the older man, to share the novelty of being _smitten_. After a beat, he mustered a reply.

“Monsieur Daae isn’t my type,” Erik said, swirling his wine in his glass. Giovanni laughed.

“I should say so. I meant, of course, Miss Daae and her _perfect_ voice.” Amid the rush of embarrassment and chagrin at Giovanni’s gentle brand of teasing, Erik also felt a fugitive pleasure. It was a delight to talk of her, his beautiful demoness.

“Yes. Her voice is a thing that would make angels weep.”

“As is yours, Erik. Have you sung for her? A romantic serenade would surely win her heart.” Despite the jocular tone, Erik considered the idea. Perhaps she would like his voice, his one beauty.

“Ah yes. I can see it now. A soft song under in the moonlight within Signore Valestro’s atrium. She will surely swoon,” Giovanni said. Erik swallowed a meditative sip.

He viewed all of life’s pleasures as fleeting, a brief reprieve from the world’s harsh treatment of him thus far. Hidden under Giovanni’s roof, he’d childishly mused suffering could not find him here. Luciana was a nuisance at worst, and Giovanni’s own daughter. She deserved his tolerance, if not respect, on that tie alone. Christine proved to be his own sort of torment, a potential well of anguish. And yet he was drawn to her like the proverbial moth to the flame, consumed by agony and blessing every moment of it. There would be pain, oh yes, but he would savor the sweetness before it arrived.

“Miss Daae is very shy, such focused attention before an audience might only embarrass her.”

“Shy or no Erik, I’ve never known a woman to dislike a romantic gesture,” Giovanni said, in all earnestness.

“Thank you, Sir. I will think about it,” he said, draining his wine glass. The raw physical exertion of the day had not diminished his restless energy. Despite the pleasure of Giovanni’s undivided attention, Erik craved a swifter pace.

“I will bid you goodnight, Sir.” Giovanni’s voice stopped him at the threshold.

“Erik . . . have a care with the girl.” His soft tone and pointed words struck deep. The half-tame monster beneath his roof had better not harm the sweet princess. Any censure, no matter how gentle, always found Erik’s very core. Chastened, Erik held Giovanni’s gaze.

“Sir, you must know I would never hurt her.”

“I was talking about _you_ , my boy,” he said.

 

Giovanni’s words followed him down the stair and into the courtyard, lit in silhouette by the setting sun. Heat radiated from the stones beneath his feet, but there was the beginning of freshness in the breeze. Perhaps it would rain soon. Enjoying the silence, Erik considered the beckoning of the spinet, or the lure of his cellar room. A soft catch of breath caught his attention. God, he would never grow accustomed to that particular rush when he saw her unexpectedly, a soul-deep surge of joy and anxiety.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, inwardly frustrated by the sudden huskiness of his tone. As she stepped nearer, he knew something was wrong. The deepening shadow obscured the details of her face, but there was a certain hesitancy in her posture.            

“Mademoiselle?” he said, imbuing his voice was layers of concern and sympathy. If Luciana had said something, he swore she’d pay.

“Excuse me, Erik. I . . . I just wanted some air on the rooftop.” Her voice was hoarse, and he saw her hands flutter, twisting the ring around her little finger. She sidled toward the stair leading to the garden and Erik was deeply torn. She had so kindly comforted him in his moment of pain, he longed to do so for her, but was woefully ill-equipped.

“Is . . . are you well?” he asked. How inane and useless he sounded!

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” she lied.

“Made—Christine,” he said, allowing himself the rare pleasure of saying her name. He felt rather than saw her gaze, intent and dizzying.

“Please. Maybe it would help to talk about it.” Christine uttered a breathless laugh.

“I’m sure you’re right. It’s just . . . I don’t know if I could bear to say the words aloud.” Erik shifted, several possible replies flying to his lips.

“If you prefer not to dwell on the unpleasantness, would you like a distraction?” he said. That coaxed out a small twitch of a smile. When had he sidled so close to her? The dying light highlighted the ridge of her eyebrow, the slope of her nose, the apple of her cheek. So _lovely_.

“A distraction?” she repeated.

“Music, of course. Would you care to sing with me?” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. Christine chewed on her lower lip as she considered it, a gesture he found both charming and sensual at the same time.

“I would like that,” she said. Together they climbed the stair to the rooftop garden.

 

XXX

 

Her heart would surely burst from her chest. Erik wanted to sing with her! Despite his passionate assurances to the contrary, he always seemed deeply uncomfortable when Giovanni plied her and Papa for a demonstration. With the hypnotic lilt of his speaking voice, she felt she would faint if she heard him sing. Any grim thought about Papa or Luciana flew straight away at Erik’s quiet—almost _shy_ —request.

Christine settled on the bench, twisting her mother’s ring around her little finger. The cool breeze toyed with her hair. She had always loved this time of day, when the world seemed flat and quiet, settling into the night’s peace. Erik’s figure cut an imposing shadow in the twilight, tall and unbending. His eyes glittered from the slits in the mask.

“What would you like to sing?” he asked softly. Her heart swelled with tenderness. He was so kind to seek to comfort her.

“Your choice, but please something in French. I couldn’t bear to butcher a lovely Italian aria,” she replied. Erik chuckled.

“I doubt that. Your proficiency continues to improve,” he said. Christine inwardly glowed at the compliment. This ease between them was heady. Erik folded his arms, leaning against the railing as the wind teased and tugged at his clothes and hair.

“ _Robert le Diable_? A rather powerful suggestion, but Meyebeer’s composition is stunning,” he said. Christine flushed.

“Forgive me, Erik. I haven’t heard that one.” _Why_ had she let him choose the song? It would only serve to highlight how young and ignorant she was; facts she was certain Erik didn’t need to be reminded of. Erik frowned.

“ _Faust_ , then? Your Margarita is lovely.”

“Very well,” she said, heaving a sigh of relief. She knew those words in her marrow, and as such had less chance of her embarrassing herself in front of him.

Erik gave her a sharp nod, nostrils flaring as he took in a deep breath. As his lips parted on the opening phrase, every fine hair on her body rose. Christine flinched, assaulted by the dark glory of his voice. The words on his lips were fire, beauty incarnate! Her hands fisted in the folds of her dress as heat began to swell and throb inside her. All else fell away as he sang, his magnificent voice the only thing in her world. Holy Virgin help her, Christine was swept up, a fragile leaf flung into a rushing gale of sound, torn asunder by each piercing note. She nearly cried out when he stopped. After hearing such a voice, silence felt like death.

“Christine? Are you all right?” His speaking voice was almost as unbearable. Within it, she heard the vestiges of ecstasy. She sucked in a deep breath, dashing a film of tears from her eyes.

“Yes, yes,” she whispered, “I’m fine.” Passionately grateful the settling dark hid her gaze, she looked at him with huge, worshipful eyes. His complex heart, his prickly exterior and dear God, his _voice_ . . . deep in her soul Christine knew she loved him.

“Thank you. Thank you for singing for me, Erik.” The silhouette of his shoulders gave a tight shrug.

“You are most welcome. I hope the song eased some of your burden,” he said.

Christine rose, caught between two powerful, opposing emotions. A great part of her wanted to rush into his arms, no matter her welcome and _show_ him how his voice had affected her. It stirred her to hunger, to a nameless passion that shook her bones. Another equally passionate part of her reminded her of how small, uncouth and inadequate she was next to such a talent. That snarking part of her conscious won out and Christine muttered something about how tired she was after the exertions of the day. She retreated to the shallow comfort of her room and Papa’s stolid presence. The familiar was comforting and plain balm after the near-religious joy she felt upon hearing Erik’s voice. It chased her in her dreams, however. She wondered in stillness of the night, if he had always been there, singing songs in her head.

 

XXX

 

His voice pierced the stone layers separating them and Luciana rose upright in her bed, clutching her heaving bosom. It was the sweetest pain, his voice. She had heard only snatches of phrase, a handful of notes in her memory. Even the life he breathed into music could not compare to his sinful angel’s voice. She swiped a hand through her sweat-damp hair. The throbbing pleasure Erik’s voice wrought died at a sudden vicious thought. He hadn’t sung for Luciana, but for _her_. Jealousy seized her, bent her double around the sick truth of it. The fainting violet, the shy twit, the mealy-mouthed _cunt_. God, Luciana had never hated as she hated Christine.

A variety of punishments occurred to Luciana, each more satisfying than the last. Shearing her head bald while she slept, pouring hot oil in her shoes, removing her fingernails one by one . . . the cramping in belly subsided in her imaginings. None were quite good enough. No, they would only earn Papa’s disgust and Erik’s wrath. Luciana knew she had to be clever and quiet. The coach back to that awful school would be a help. She had time to plan and vet her accomplice. Let the doe-eyed idiot dream sweetly. Let Erik moon over her. Now let it be war on them both!  

                                            

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apologies to lovely readers who wait so long for this chapter. Busy home life leaves little room for writing. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I hope you enjoy this crazy germ of a story!


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